ii^'^: 


THE  MUSEUM 

Is  DUblidicd  every  monili,  at  Six  Dollars 
^  a  year,  by 

E   LITTELL,  S8  Chesuut-street,  PhlUdelphii. 
Edinburgh,  Q<iarterly,  IVtstmmstcr,  Relrospec- 

pliicalJournat.^e.SfC.tfC  , 
1826. 


7.i/di. 


Srotit  f  3e  feifirari?  of 

(profefiBor  n^^ifPtam  J^^nrj^  (Breen 

QBcqueaf^eb  fig  ^im  fo 
f^e  feifimrg  of 

(pttnceton  45eofogtcdf  ^emtnar^ 

7-553 


>  • 


ETCHINGS 


FRORt 


^wm  mami®i®irg  w%m%m^ 


/ 

By  THOMAS  CHARLTON  HENRY,  D.D. 

halt  Pastor  ojthe  Second  Presbyterian  Church,  Charleston,  S.  C. 


When  I  bethink  ttie  of  that  speech  uhylear,  • 

Of  Mutability,  and  well  it  weigh:  "^  • 

Me  seems,  that  though  she  all  unworthy  were  • 

Of  the  Heaven's  rule  ;  yet  very  sooth  to  say, 

In  all  things  else  she  bears  the  greatest  sway. 

Which  makes  rae  loath  this  state  of  life  so  tickle, 

And  love  of  things  so  vain  and  cast  away  ; 

Whose  flowering  pride,  so  fading  and  so  fickle, 

Short  Time  shall  soon  cut  down  with  his  consuming    sickle. 

Then  'gin  I  think  on  that  which  Nature  said. 

Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  change  shall  be. 

But  stedfast  rest  of  all  things  firmly  stayd 

Upon  the  pillaurs  of  Eternity, 

That  is  contrayr  to  Mutability  : 

For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  deligKt, 

But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 

Witli  him  that  is  tlie  God  of  Sabaoth  hight  : 

Oh  that  great  Sabaoth  God.  grant  me  that  Sabaoth's  sight. 


CHARLESTON  : 
OBSERVER    OFPICB    PRESS. 


.^♦tD   BV   D.  W.  HARRISON,    CHARLESTON — E.  LlTTELt,    PHlLADIlPniA- 
/OHN    r.  HAVE."?,    N.  YORK — CROCKER  AND   BREnSTER,    BOSTO.", 


District  of  South  Carolina. 

(1j>  S.)  Be  it  remembered,  That  on  the  Fifth  day  of  December,  A.  U. 
3827,  and  in  the  fifty-second  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  the  Rev.  Samuel  S.  S.  Davis  deposited  in  this  office  the 
fitle  of  a  book  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  proprietor,  in  the  words  fol- 
lowing:, to  wit: 

"  Etchinj^s  from  the  Religious  World.  By  Thomas  Charlton  Henry, 
D.  D.  late  Pastor  of  the  2d  Presbyterian  Church,  Charleston,  S.  C." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  ofCongress  of  the  United  States,  enfititled 
"  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of 
Maps,  Charts,  and  Books  to  the  Authors  and  Proprietors  of  such  copies 
during  the  times  therein  mentioned" — And  also  an  Act  entitled  "  An 
Act  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled  '  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of 
learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books  to  the  Au- 
thors and  Proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned, 
and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving 
and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  JERVEY,  District  Clerk 


To ,  Esq. 


My  Dear  Sir, 


Why  should  we  destroy  the  notes  of 

the  day  I  Some  ten  years  hence,  they  avou1(^ 
enahle  us  to  act  our  part  again  in  the  scenes 
of  the  past.  And  if  there  be  too  much  paiu 
in  the  re-creation  of  things  that  have  perished, 
to  be  counter-balanced  by  the  pleasure  they 
offer  ;  the  gold  of  experience,  for  which  we 
paid  so  dear,  is  worthy  of  preservation.  It  is 
passable  coin.  Our  judgement  never  refuses  it. 
Let  me  tell  you,  I  love  to  hoard  together  the 
communications  which  make  up  a  chronicle  of 
the  great  and  little  events  of  life.  They  may 
be  of  little  worth  in  the  hour  for  which  they 
were  intended  ;  but  they  grow  richer  by  pre- 
servation than  any  thing  else  that  age  improves. 
They  have  power  to  recal  the  seasons  to  which 
they  belonged.  Every  line  revokes  matters 
and  men.     A  single  word and  the  eye  al- 


ways  catches  that  particular  word- — —suiri' 
VLions  manner  and  place,  riant  or  sombre^ 
cheerful  or  sad,  as  they  were.  It  does  more. 
It  introduces  them  without  the  duskiness  which 
our  own  selfish  part  had  thrown  around  them. 
We  see  Avliat  lias  been,  as  it  was.  We  are  too 
disinterested,  when  it  has  so  far  gone  by,  to  be 
blinded  by  our  personal  prepossessions  or  pol- 
icy.  And  when  these  ten  years  or  any  other 

good  round  number  that  you  will,  is  completed, 
if  there  be  a  moment  in  life  when  truth  is  most 
unshackled  in  her  agency,  it  is  when  we  look 

over  such  a  pile  of  life's  monuments. It  is 

in  the  very  article  of  such  doing  that  I  have 
been,  for  hours,  engaged.  And,  verily,  I  have 
been  more  deeply  affected  than  ever  by  the 
soberest  realities  before.  You  may  smile  when 
I  say  it,  but  there  is  a  natural  getting  up,  and 
a  natural  keeping, — as  artists  speak, — in  this 
retrospect,  fOr  which  I  was  hardly  prepared. 
I  find  myself  in  an  indefinable  mood.  I  see 
the  past  with  a  distinctness  which  fancy  assim- 
ilates to  our  sight  of  things  Avhen  we  shall  bo 
in  eternity.  Where  in  the  dealings  of  inter- 
course I  have  been  wrong,  I  am  confounded  at 
niy  folly.  I  can  see  in  the  mountain  of  evil 
the  gradual  up-building — tlie  first  grain  of  sand 
that,  coinnienced  its  formation.     Where  I  have 


been  useful,  I  can  discover  the  workmanship  of 
a  hand  that  was  then  invisible.  What  teas, 
existed  in  temporary  colours,  like  writing  in 
sympathetic  ink  ;  and  it  had  departed  with  its 
colouring.  But  here  was  a  chymical  process 
that  restored  the  whole  to  shape  again.  In 
five  minutes  I  shifted  the  scenes  of  months. 
In  five  more,  the  ratio  was  trebled  :  For  there 
is  an  "  attraction  of  aggregation"  in  moral  as 

well  as  in  physical  science. 

There  is  not  a  circumstance  connected  with 
this  pile  of  papers  which  is  too  indilfcrent  to 
awaken  emotion. — Even  that  letter,  Avhich  I 
have  just  destined  to  the  flames,  as  the  most 
jnnnaterial  part  of  the  past,  gave  rise  to  a  mul- 
titudinous association  of  thought.  The  writer, 
it  is  true,  never  awakened  nmch  interest  in  my 
bosom  :  and  we  never  exchanged  any  other 
communications  than  those  of  business  or  form. 
But  then,  this  is  the  latest  trace  that  remains 
of  him.  He  was  one  who  made  up  part  of  a 
circle  in  which  I  moved.  And  that  circle  is 
dissolved.  It  parted  and  melted  away,  like  all 
that  is  of  artificial  or  natural  light.  The  next 
I  shall  know  of  that  man  will  be  in  a  world  of 
spirits.  There  is  something  painful  in  destroy- 
ing this  vestige.  It  hastens  him  into  oblivion. 
1  am  SQ  miicli  more  insulated,  mvsclf 


Vi. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  some  fifty  such  sheet:?. 
But  there  was  not  one  of  them  that  did  not 
ponit  out  some  spots  in  my  pilgrimage,  to 
which  I  could  trace  events  that  have  borne  on 
iny  present  circumstances,  or  on  my  disposition 
and  temper.  How  distinctly  can  I  see  that  the 
greatest  concerns  in  life — concerns  which  form 
a  part  of  our  moral  being,  arise  from  little 
springs,  like  the  mightiest  rivers  of  our  earth. 
How  plainly  do  I  observe  that  every  thing  is  a 
link — or  at  least  a  component  part  of  a  link, — 

in  the  history  of  religious  experience 

Those  sheets  are  consuming  before  me.  The 
flame  which  wrapt  them,  is  flickering  in  its  last 
blue  shade  of  colour,  upon  some  warping  frag- 
ment that  shrinks  up,  and  passes  away,  as  the 

light  cinders  that  ascended  before  it. 

There  go  the  mementos  of  years  ! — The  chain 
of  the  past  is  broken. — The  absent  are  to  be 
forgotten  until  I  meet  them  again.  The  deeds 
between  us  have  gone  up  already  :  The  hour 
of  each,  returned  unto  Him  Avho  spoke  time 
into  being,  and  deposited  before  him  all  it  had 
gathered. 

Part  of  my  existence  seems  stricken  oft*: — 
For,  despite  of  us,  oblivion  of  the  past  seems 
to  diminish  the  scale  of  our  being  :  The  mem- 
ory of  what  teas,  makes  more  than  a  fanciful 
portion  of  the  ens  prcesentis, 


VII. 

"  Our  own  aftairs  are  of  magnitude  to  us,  if 
they  are  so  to  no  one  else.  While  I  turned 
from  the  lost  pile,  it  seemed  to  leave  much 
such  a  monument  to  my  credit,  as  the  baths  of 
Alexandria  did  to  that  of  Omar  : — Self-love  is 
pleased  in  comparing  little  things  with  great. 

Now  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  the  packet 
I  send  you  1  You  shall  hear  :  A  folded  sheet, 
which  had  been  read  again  and  again,  laid  on 
the  top  of  the  yet  unsentenced  mass  of  papers. 
Its  seal  had  not  been  fractured  in  opening. — 
The  moment  I  cast  my  eye  on  the  impression, 
and  read  Je  ne  change  (fen  mourant,  an  array 
of  thoughts,  pressing,  conflicting,  and  painful, 
stood  before  me.  The  catchct  had  a  charm  to 
revive  reflections  which  I  had  condemned  to 
forgctfulness.  Jc  ne  change  (fen  mourant,  was 
a  pretty  conceit  which  vanity  made  for  friend- 
ship— which  was  intended  to  pass  as  a  senti- 
ment, (a  thing  that  in  modes  of  life  means  not 
much,)  but  which  the  receiver  from  one  whom 
he  loved,  would  credit  to  its  utmost ;  just  as  our 
vanity  loves  to  credit  the  first  salutation  of  a 
letter,  and  its  final  subscription,  although  the 
writer  may  mean  nothing  in  either. 

I  could  not  escape  from  the  crowd  of  living 
reflections  which  pressed  upon  me,  while  I  held 


vm. 

this  sheet  in  my  hands.  I  read  the  signa- 
ture— I  invohmtarily  pronounced  the  name 
with  all  the  familiarity  of  former  days.  The 
car,  as  well  as  the  eye,  has  its  fancy.  I  heard 
the  same  manly  voice,  once  used  to  answer, 
sounding  again. 

A  thought  occurred  to  me,  in  practical  cha- 
racter :  and  to  that  thought  you  owe  the  pack- 
et which  travels  in  company  with  these  lines. — 
'  Might  I  not  detain,  and  pinion  down,  much 
that  once  was  present,  and  which  this  hour  has 
remanded  again  V  I  do  not  wish  to  live  over 
all  the  past :  who  does  \ — I  do  not  wish  to  pre- 
serve any  thing  of  autobiogra][)hy,  excepting  so 
far  as  the  reprieve  of  certain  sheets  will  do  so, 
for  my  own  musings,  and,  let  me  add,  for  my 
OAvn  benefit.  But  somebody  has  said,  that, 
"  a  record  of  our  thoughts  as  they  occur  might 
be  digested  into  something  of  value."  And 
any  body  might  say,  that,  a  record  of  what 
thousands  of  us  have  witnessed — "  the  merest 
deeds  of  the  day" — would  be  of  greater  worth  ; 
just  so  far  as  example  is  a  better  teacher  and 
a  better  disciplinarian  than  precept.  Many  d 
tale  that  was  of  private  interest,  and  that  was 
replete  with  instruction,  and  that  deserved  to 
live,  is  entombed  with  its  witnesses  and  actors. 


ix. 

I  have  reached  my  point  at  last. — 1  deter- 
iiiincd  to  enclose  with  certain  strokes  of  the 
pen,  pictures  of  some  things  as  they  were  ;  to 
secure  them  before  they  and  their  moral  es- 
caped. Yet  there  was  a  difficulty  in  my  way. 
To  be  able  even  to  say  "  quorum  pars  fui,^''  is 
an  incidental  aflair.  But  to  tell  the  thing  as  it 
w  as,  so  as  to  present  it  to  the  eye  of  a  friend, 
exactly  as  it  met  our  own,  is  not  so  easy  a  task. 
It  may  be  freshened  to  our  o>vn  sight  by  the 
record  we  have  made.  But  it  is  because  we 
have  auxiliaries  that  supply  all  that  was  want- 
ing in  effect :  and  these  it  is  not  in  our  power 
to  transfer  to  another.  The  verisimilitude  of 
matter  may  be  communicated  :  but  the  mind 
cannot  impart  its  impressions  so  easily  :  and 
our  world  would  be  strangely  altered  if  it 
could. 

But  there  w  as  another  obstacle  in  my 
way  :  I  knew  my  incompetency  to  describe  a 
scene  of  feeling.  There  is  a  talent  in  the  fil- 
ling up,  which,  if  I  dared  covet,  I  would  have 
almost  envied  others.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  w  as  some  compensation  for  this  defect : 
It  was  truth  which  I  had  to  relate  :  and  it  is 
truth  which  I  have  told.  If  there  be  any  ex- 
terior embellishment,  it  will  not  deceive  you, 
who  will  easily  discern  it.     If  the  reasoning  or 


argument,  i«  colloquy,  is  not  always  seriatim — 
and  I  mention  this  snider  the  peradvcnture  that 
it  might  reaoJi  the  observation  of  some  con- 
cerned— why  tlicn,  I  have  only  to  plead  against 
the  charge  of  error,  that  any  slight  alteration 
!>cre,  or  even  an  important  one,  cannot  afiect 
<he  outline  of  the  story.  To  the  allegation 
that  I  Imve  disguised  the  names  of  persons  and 
places,  I  am  amenable  ;  and  I  can  the  more 
freely  confess  it,  as  I  see  no  great  guilt  in  the 
act.  Had  I  done  otherwise,  I  had  unwarran- 
tably obtruded  on  privacies  which  no  man  may 
justifiably  violate  :  and  all  that  is  likely  to  be 
useful  in  my  design,  might  be  efiected  equally 
well  without  it. 

I  have  been  the  rather  induced  to  undertake 
these  etchings, — and  to  annex  to  them  such  re- 
flections as  occurred  in  the  moments  of  execu- 
tion— because  I  have  often  observed  that  the 
simplest  facts  in  life  fling  a  brightness  around 
the  Word  of  God,  and  render  its  sacrc^d  truths 
more  distinct  and  defined  :  while  that  volume, 
in  its  turn,  inter})rets  the  lesson  which  these 
facts  convey.  Many  of  them  have  passed  with- 
in the  scope  of  my  remembrance  as  episodes 
in  life  ;  and  I  cannot  consent  to  forget  them. 
They  are  sometimes  [)ainfnl ;  yet  I  could  not 
weep  over  one  of  them  now.     They  have  left  a 


XI. 

!Sj)ecic8  of  thoiightrulness  which  presents  a  pir- 
fect  antagonism  to  tears. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  in  the  present  and 
tiiture  series  of  these  etchings,  you  may  find 
some  answers  to  the  cavils  and  excuses  of  the 
natural  heart — some  clue  to  prevalent  self-de- 
ceptions— some  exposition  of  theoretical  and 
practical  errors  in  religion — some  develope- 
nients  of  truth — and  some  hints  to  the  Chris- 
tian, which  belong  rather  to  the  discursiveness 
of  my  subjects,  than  to  what  are  deemed  the 
more  stately  and  less  familiar  topics  of  the 
pulpit. 

The  scenes  are  laid  where  they  belonged  :  in 
my  native  country.  Certain  little  things  of 
manner  and  custom  will  indicate  this.  But 
that  indication  will  be  more  complete  in  the 
allusions  to  those  extraordinary  seasons  of  spi- 
ritual blessing,  with  which  our  churches  are 
sometimes  visited  ;  seasons  which  are  known  to 
you  only  by  report,  and  that  report  generally 
defective  and  unsatisfactoiT- 


^mm  wwm  ^mm^^mm^^ 


Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where : 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot : 
"  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 


"  Of  those,  that  lawless  and  iucertain  thoughts 

"  Imagine  howling  ! 'tis  too  horrible  ! 

"  The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
"  That  age,  ach,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
"  Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
"  To  what  we  fear  of  death." 

"  I  cannot  doff  all  luunan  fear. 
•'  I  know  this  greeting  is  severe 

"  To  this  poor  shell  of  clay. 
"  Yet  come,  Oh  Death !  thy  freezing  kiss 
"  Emancipates  !     Thy  rest  is  bliss. 

"  I  would  I  were  away  !" 

It  is  impossible  to  discover  the  character 
of  rehgious  afiections  by  the  operation  of  in- 
sulated events  on  the  mind  and  feelings.  And 
yet  this  position,  though  admitted  in  reasoning, 
is  subject  to  a  general  denial  in  our  practice. 
We  readily  attach  suspicion  to  professions : 
but  we  derive  conclusions  which  appear  to  us 
almost  infallible  from  the  eflects  which  adver- 
sity produces  upon  the  appearance  and  con- 
duct.   We  hope  for  much  when  we  see  the 


14  THE    TWO    PRISONERS. 

passions  lulled  by  affliction  :  and  yet  it  may 
have  been  only  the  shock  which  met  and  arres- 
ted them  for  the  moment.  Our  coniidence  in- 
creases when  an  a})parent  subduement  of  tem- 
per has  succeeded  ;  and  yet  it  may  be  the  bend- 
ing of  a  wounded  selfishness,  while  neither  re- 
signation nor  faith  has  taken  part  in  the  doing. 
There  lives  not  a  grace  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Christian  tliat  has  not  its  counterfeit.  There 
is  not  a  counterfeit  Avhich  has  not  its  hour  of 
peculiar  plausibdity.  It  is  to  the  uniform  life 
of  holiness,  sifted  by  its  variety  of  temptations, 
and  exposed  to  its  little  as  well  as  its  greater  or- 
deals, that  we  are  to  look  for  the  essential  evi- 
dence of  a  renewal  of  soul. 

But  this  self  deception  reaches  to  our  own 
experience  as  well  as  to  our  judgement  of  others. 
We  attribute  certain  feelings  to  causes  with 
which  they  have  no  connexion.  We  gather  a 
confident  hope  from  impulses  whose  beginnings 
arid  leadings  are  equivocal.  Nay,  the  very 
mood  of  mind  in  which  we  are,  has  its  office 
and  its  power  :  And,  even  when  it  has  passed 
by,  leaves  its  flattering  encouragement  in  the 
remembrance  of  its  effects. 

It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  the  dying  sinner 
sometimes  extends  the  delu>ion  that  exists  in 
his  own  heart,  to  that  of  the  credulous  obser- 


Tin:    TWO   PRISONERS.  15 

vcr  :  or  that  tlie  skk  should  display  what  may 
be  so  easily  taken  for  the  proof  of  a  radical 
change.     It  is  false  that, 

"  A  Deatli  bed  's  a  detector  of  the  lieart,' 

or  that  here 

'•  TiiTd  Dissiiaiulation  drops  tlie  mask  :" 

We  may  be  dishonest  to  ourselves  until  "  the 
silver  cord  is  loosed,"  and  the  spirit  enters  a 
workl  >\iiere  falsehood  can  play  her  part  no 
more.  The  Peripatetic  who  defined  hope, 
•'  the  dream  of  a  waking  man,"  might  have  ex- 
tended his  meaning  to  tlie  spiritual  interest  of 
thousands,  who  continue  to  hope,  with  all  the 
fallacy  of  a  nightly  vision,  until  the  astounding 
realities  of  eternity  break  on  the  senses.  And 
he  who  said  of  truth,  that  it  was  "  Heaven- 
born,  with  numberless  counterfeits  on  earth," 
little  knew  how  extensive  was  the  application 
of  his  remark  to  concerns  of  infinite  moment. 

At  a  late  hour  in  the  night,  a  note  v»as  once 
put  into  my  hands,  from  the  keeper  of  a  prison 
in  the  neighbouring  street  of  the  city.  It  con- 
tained a  request  to  visit  two  young  men,  who 
were  under  sentence  of  death,  and  who  were 
expected  to  pay  the  penalty  of  a  violated  law 
on  the  ensuing  morning.  The  illness  of  the 
Clergyman  who  ordinarily  odiciated  as   Chap 


16  THE   TWO   PRISONERS, 

lain,  and  the  earnest  desire  of  the  prisoners, 
whom  I  had  once  before  visited,  furnished  in- 
ducements to  my  compHance. 

It  was  a  melancholy  errand,  although  it  was 
one  of  mercy.  The  uninterrupted  stillness  of 
the  night,  the  unseasonableness  of  the  time, 
and  the  nature  of  my  visit,  conspired  together 
to  produce  confused  and  uneasy  sensations. 
And,  when  I  arrived  at  the;  gate  of  the  prison, 
I  had  some  reason  to  suspect  myself  of  default 
in  that  great  ingredient  of  ^n  acceptable  sa- 
crifice— cheerfulness  in  the  offering. 

The  Turnkey,  whose  orders  had  prepared 
him  to  expect  me,  led  the  way  through  the 
great  hall  of  the  dreary  building  to  the  mas- 
sive door,  which  separated  the  interior  from  the 
publick  gaze.  Having  traversed  a  narrow  pas- 
sage, and  descended  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  range  of  solitary  cells. 
The  grating  of  hinges  once  more  over,  we 
were  enclosed  within  the  confinement  of  "  The 
Two  Prisoners."  For  some  reason,  not  now 
recollected,  the  ordinary  rule  of  the  prison  had 
been  waved,  and  the  partners  in  crime  had  been 
kept  together,  from  the  period  of  their  sen- 
tence. 

An  earthen  pitcher,  and  an  unbroken  loaf  of 
brown  bread,  were  on  a  table  in  the  centre  of 


THE    TWO    FRISONER8.  17 

the  Stone  floor.  Two  beds  of  straw,  with  tlieir 
woollen  coverings,  completed  the  furniture  of 
the  apartment.  Near  the  ceiling,  a  small, 
thick-grated  window,  which  served  rather  to 
ventilate  than  to  light,  and  a  heavy  ring  fasten- 
ed to  the  floor,  were  all  else,  apart  from  the 
culprit*!,  on  which  the  sight  might  have  rested. 

"  And  so  here,"  thought  I,  "  is  part  payment 
of  '  the  wag^s  of  sin  :'  Sin  that  might  have 
begun  its  debtorship,  insensibly,  with  the  gnilty, 
in  mere  imaginings,  before  a  purpose  was  fledged 
or  formed  :  that  went  on  from  fancy,  to  pur- 
pose, and  to  act :  from  the  smaller  deed,  that 
most  startled  an  active  conscience,  to  the  bol- 
der transgression,  in  which  the  conscience  is 
inert.  And  yet  this  is  only  an  earnest  of  full 
payment.  Tomorrow  the  debtor  is  to  begin 
his  full  discharge.  Six  hours  to  come, — and 
nights  and  days  are  to  be  numbered  no  more.  Six 
hours — and  the  ear  shall  tingle  with  the  sounds 
of  eternity. — And  these  hours  are  passing  with 
a  fleetness  that  seems  merciless  and  horrible  " 

The  prisoners  had  risen  on  our  entrajice. 

Each  was   sitting  at  the   foot  of  his  pallet. — 

The  dim  light  of  the  lantern  was  just  sufficient 

to  read  an  expression  of  countenance  which  is 

seldom  unmarked  on  such  an  occasion.     There 

was  a  striking    diflerence  betw^een    the    two 

3 


18  rilE    TWO    PRISOr^EKS. 

young  men.  The  wild  stare,  anti  fallen  coun- 
tenance of  one,  was  the  very  personification  ol' 
despair.  The  eye  of  the  other,  w  as  moistened 
and  mild :  his  forehead  was  smooth  :  and  his 
whole  features  evinced  a  frame  of  mind  con- 
tented, if  not  happy. 

A  month  before,  this  was  not  so.  There 
had  been  strong  expectations  of  a  reprieve. 
iVIuch  interest  had  been  used  ;  and  many  pal- 
liating circumstances  had  been  presented,  to 
effect  a  pardon.  But  the  Governor  seemed 
inflexible.  And  for  a  week  past,  all  inquiry  on 
the  part  of  the  prisoners  had  been  answered 
by  a  decided  negative.  It  w  as  this  int.-lligence, 
so  often  confirmed,  that  brought  the  disposi- 
tions and  tempers  of  both  into  visible  exercise. 

B ,   was  of   an   ardent   and  sanguine 

temperament.  He  had  hoped  much  from  the 
humanity  of  the  jury,  during  his  trial :  and 
when  the  verdict  of,  "  Guilty,"  was  announced 
in  the  Court,  though  his  heart  sunk  within  him 
for  the  moment,  he  transferred  his  expecta- 
tions to  the  clemency  of  the  Executive :  and 
the  indulgence  of  his  fancy  had,  in  a  fortnight, 
produced  an  assurance  of  ultimate  safety.  In 
the  meanwhile,  the  doubts  and  fears  of  his 
friends  were  giving  way  to  a  conviction  ol" 
iiopelessness.     The  good  Chaplain  communi- 


THE    TWO   PRISONERS.  10 

cated  this  melancholy  news.     And  his  daily 
visits  were  directed  exclusively  to  the  concerns 
of  a  fntiire  world.     B reluctantly  loos- 
ened his  hold  on  earthly  things ;   and  sufl'ered 
his  attention  to  be  drawn  to  the  subject  of  his 
ouilt  and  depravity.     In  a  short  time,  he   ac- 
knowledged the  turpitude  of  his  heart,  the  jus- 
tice of  the  sentence  which  had  been  passed 
ai>ainst  him,  and  his  desert  of  eternal  death. 
And  many  and  bitter  were  the  tears  which  he 
shed,  as  he  looked  back  on  a  life  of  impeni- 
tence and  folly.     He   accused  himself  with  a 
severity  of  expression  that  betokened  indigna- 
tion awakened  against  sin.     He  was  astonish- 
ed that  divine  mercy  could  be   tendered  to   a 
wretch  so  vile  as  himself     He  feared  to  apply 
invitations  which  appeared  too  gracious  for  one 
in  his  condition  ;  for  conscience  rebutted  them 
all  with  her  full  scroll  of  recorded  crime.— Yet 
this  conflict  was  short.     For  several  days  past, 
he   had  announced  his  belief  in  the   "  Friend 
of  Sinners."     He  had  thought  of  a  Manasseh 
and  a  David,  of  aft  oflending  Ephraim,  a  pollu- 
ted Mary,  and  a  persecuting  Saul.     He  saw 
the  world  as  a  theatre   of  Divine   compassion, 
where  the  attribute  of  mercy  had,  times  with- 
out number,  triumphed  over  the  power  of  guilt. 
And  he  was  now  ever  ready  to  speak  of  the 


2Q  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

peace-giting  blood  of  Christ — of  the  exalted 
expectations  which  gladdened  his  own  bosom — 
and  of  the  joy  which  awaited  his  undeserving 
mu\. 

It  was  in  this  mood  I  found  liim.  He  took 
my  hand,  and,  while  he  clasped  it  with  fervour, 
expressed  his  gratitude  for  my  visit.  "It  is 
the  last,"  said  he,  "  you  will  ever  be  called  to 
pay  me." 

The  tone  in  which  he  uttered  this  was  neith- 
er plaintive  nor  strong ;  but  it  seemed  to  par- 
take of  both.  And  it  was  in  concord  w  ith  an 
expression  of  countenance  Avhich,  of  all  others, 
I  would  have  chosen  for  one  who  was  on  the 
borders  of  eternity.  Had  1  not  been  appriz- 
ed of  this  change,  I  should  have  been  aston- 
ished at  the  appearance  it  exhibited :  But 
now  it  was  touching. — And  who  does  not 
know  that  there  are  certain  aspects  of  coun- 
tenance which  seem  more  unequivocal  than 
the  most  plausible  professions — and  in  sight 
of  which  we  abandon  our  distrust  under  the 
dictate  as  well  as  tha  consent  of  our  feel- 
ings 1 

I  sat  down  on  the  pallet  by  his  side.  I  felt 
that  I  was  addressing  one  Avho  had  been 
made  a  trophy  of  distinguishing  grace  :  and 
whom,  in   a  very  few  hours,   that  grace  was 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  2i 

to  welcome  in  Heaven.  The  distance  between 
the  two  worlds  grew  less.  The  acclamations 
of  joy,  and  tlie  song  of  victory,  were  soon  to 
be  audible  to  one  of  us.  My  curiosity  was 
awakened  to  know  more  of  the  sensations  of 
a  man,  who  seemed  to  be  foregathering  tlic 
feelings  of  an  unearthly  spirit ;  and  whose  very 
enthusiasm,  in  such  an  hour,  appeared  to  have 
been  collected  from  above.  I  asked, — "  is 
vour  contidence  in  the  Saviour  never  shaken  V 

*'  Never  now.  1  can  trust  in  the  sufficiency 
of  his  atonement.  And  I  have  no  fear  in  com- 
mitting my  soul  into  his  hands."  "  Do  you  think 
you  have  done  any  thing  to  merit  pardon  f ' 
"  No,  sir,  nothing.  I  know  tiiat  I  am  the  chief 
of  sinners.  My  hope  is  entirely  in  Jesus  Cirist.'* 

"  If  you  Avere  spared,  would  you  devote  your 
life  to  tlie  cause  of  the  Redeemer  V 

As  I  proposed  this  question,  the  other  pri- 
soner started.  He  cast  his  eye  full  upon  me 
with  a  visage  of  active  anxiety,  tempered  with 

a  ray   of  hope.     B paid  no   attention   to 

this  ;  but  replied  with  promptness,  as  if  no  in- 
terruption had  been  caused  by  the  sudden 
clanking  of  his  companion's  chains :  "  I  trust 
I  should  ;  my  strength  would  be  in  the  Saviour 
still.  But  I  have  no  desire  to  be  spared  in  the 
Ayorld  any  longer." 


Z'Z  Tin:    TWO    PRISONERS. 

"  Yet  surely  yon  would  make  no  choice, 
apart  from  His  will  !" 

"  No,  none.  I  am  willing  to  go  or  stay  ;  1 
do  not  pray  for  either." 

"  Is  sin  hateful  in  itself  V 

"  Yes,  sir ;  without  an  idea  of  Hell  it  would 
be  as  loathsome  as  it  is  now." 

"Can  you  admire  God  in  the  justice  of  his 
character  !" 

"  I  can,  and  do.  If  he  cast  me  off  forever, 
I  think  I  should  still  see  the  excellence  of  his 
justice." 

Such  was  the  commencement  of  an  hour's 
conversation  with  this  youth.  During  this 
time  I  asked  every  question  which  seemed 
necessary  to  try  the  nature  of  his  views,  and 
to  detect,  if  possible,  any  self-deception  which 
he  might  be  practising  on  his  heart.  Every 
answer  was  satisfactory,  while  in  its  manner 
it  was  modest  and  humble.  I  forgot  the  op- 
pressive gloom  of  the  apartment :  or  rather, 
hope  had  cheered  and  lighted  it,  while  he 
described  the  operations  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
on  his  soul. 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  time  he  begged 
me  to  unite  with  him  in  a  hynm  of  praise. 
I.  consented.     And  with  a  voice  that  was  full 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  23 

and  clear,  he  struck  up  a  tunc  to  the  following 
words : 

Hark  !  hark  !  what  sounds  are  those  so  pleasing  '. 
Sinners,  wipe  the  falling  tear  : 
Tis  love  divine,  and  never  ceasing 
Flows  from  Jesus  to  the  ear. 

"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labour ; 
*'  Sinners,  heavy-laden,  come  ; 
•'  None  are  more  welcome  to  the  Saviour. 
•'  Than  the  wretched  and  undone. 

"  No  longer  let  the  Tempter  keep  you 

•'  Fast  in  chains  of  unbelief;  1 

"  Though  late  in  life,  the  Word  assures  you 

"  Christ  could  save  the  dying  Thief. 

•'  Ho!  all  ye  sinners  heavy-laden, 
"  Fly  to  Christ — the  Saviour's  breast; 
"  Receive  the  pressing  invitation  ; 
"  Come,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

What  a  scene  for  the  niidniglit  hour  of  a 
dungeon  !  '  But  God,'  tliougiit  I,  '  can  esta- 
|jli.sh  the  glory  of  his  presence  as  well  within 
the  walls  of  the  Criminal's  cell,  as  in  the  courts 
of  his  Temple.' 

The  most  painful  part  of  my  task  remained 
to  be  accomplished.  I  approached  the  seat  of 
the  second  culprit.  His  face  was  covered  by 
his  hands  :  and  when  I  inquired  into  the  state 
of  his  mind,  at  this  awful  juncture,  lie  hardly 
lifted  them  to  say — "  I  do'nt  know." 

"  What  a  condition  for  a  soul  within  a  step 
of  the  Judgement-throne  !"  I  exclaimed. 


-4  THE    TM  O    PRISONERS. 

"  Is  there  no  hope  V  said  he,— with  a  wistful 
look,  that  seemed  to   search  my  very  thoughts. 

"  There  is  hui)e,  for  the  penitent  and  beUev- 
ing." 

"  No,  not  tliat — is  there  no  liope  of  pardon  f ' 

"  None,  except  from  Heaven." 

"  Oh  God— Oh  God  !" 

"  My  dear  Sir,  reflect  one  moment" 

*•  I  cannot  reflect.  I  dare  not  think.  If  I 
consider  the  past,  I  see  what  might  have  been ; 
and  the  past  brings  me  shuddering  to  the  pre- 
sent. If  1  think  of  the  present — w  here  am  1 1 
and  who  can  think  in  such  a   condition  I — If  I 

reflect  on  the  future tomorrow oh  Sir, 

is  there  indeed  no  hope  I 

"  I  have  already  said,  no.  Let  me  advise 
yon,- as  yon  vahie  your  soul,  not  to  lose  a  mo- 
ment of  the  little  time  before  you.  If  yon  die 
in  this  state,  yon  are  lost  forever." 

"  I  know  that.  But  I  cannot  feel  it.  I  am 
confused.  Every  thing  seems  dark  within  and 
around  me.  That  horrible  execution  haunts 
me  ever.  I  cannot  sleep.  The  first  dozing 
only  brings  a  dream  of  the  crowd  and  the  gal- 
lows.    I  collect  myself  again,   and  I  say — 7iOj 

mot  yet For  ten  days  past,  I  have  counted 

the  hours  to  lengthen  time.  And  now  I  have 
been  counting  the  minutes.     Only  three  bun- 


TIIR    TWO    PRISOi\ERS.  'Zki 

died  remain  :  no — less — since  I  have  l)ecn 
talking  to  you — "  "  Let  me  beseech  you  to  look 
to  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  possible" "  No  ;  noth- 
ing is  possible. — My  heart  is  heavy  and  cold 
as  that  stone.     It  sinks   me  down.     My  head 

grows  dizzy.     And  I  feel  such  a  throbbing 

Oh  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  must  be  to  die  !" 

"  My  dear  Sir,  you  are  wasting  these  pre- 
cious minutes." 

"  I  know  it.  I  have  been  doing  nothing  else 
since  I  have  been  here.  I  have  tried  several 
times  to  pray  :  but  I  could  sec  nothing  before 
me,  wliile  1  felt  a  dreadful  moving  within  me. 
I  know  there  is  a  Heaven  and  a  Hell ;  but  I 
cannot  conceive  of  either.  Every  thing  seems 
mixed  up  together.    I  cannot  separate  them." 

I  could  easily  conceive  how  a  mind  made  up 
of  subtle  and  tumultuous  elements  might  be 
wrought  into  this  half  phrenzied  action.  Its 
powers  were  incapable  of  coherency,  as  I  have 
seen  the  nerves  of  a  powerful  man,  in  an  hour 
of  peril.  I  knew  the  cause  of  all  this.  I  could 
trace  its  progress.  But  I  know  no  way  to 
remove  the  evil.  The  case  appeared  remedi- 
less. There  was  but  one  chord  of  his  heart 
that  seemed  susceptible  of  regular  vibration. 
All  the  rest  were  loose  and  flaccid.     And  yet, 

touching  this  one  could  answer  no  good  end. 

4 


2(J  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

What  could  be  done  ?  Entreaty  and  warning 
were  mis-spent  breatli.  The  horrible  and 
shapeless  images,  whicli  flitted  before  this  poor 
suflTerer,  were  formed  by  his  fancy  from  things 
of  earth.  And  neither  judgement  nor  imagi- 
nation were  to  be  moved  one  step  beyond  it. 
What  an  awful  plunge  into  eternity  was  now 
to  be  taken  !  What  an  inconceivable  moment 
when  the  rallied  powers  of  the  spirit  were  to 
resume  their  energies  under  the  lash  of  re- 
morse ! 

The  interview  ended  with  prayer.  I  know 
not  how  I  addressed  the  throne  of  grace.  I  can- 
not well  recollect  the  feelings  of  the  occasion. 
But  I  know  that  they  were  warring. — We  shook 
hands  together  and  parted.  The  officer  took 
up  the  light :  and  as  he  approached  the  door, 
and  its  shadow  was  covering  the  two  prisoners  ; 
when  I  gave  them  a  parting  gaze,  my  soul 
seemed  heavy  within  me  ;  and  I  retraced  my 
way  with  sensations  which  no  man  may  choose 
for  his  own. 

Then  followed  restless  hours  of  feverish  ex- 
citement. Every  few  minutes'  dozing  brought 
the  prisoners  before  me.  At  one  time,  I  saw 
them  dying  :  the  first,  with  a  lovely  smile  :  the 
second,  in  the  convulsive  throes  of  despair. 
At  another  time,  I  was  intent  on  the  vast  con- 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  27 

^•egation  assembled  before  the  place  of  death. 
I  watched  their  countenances.  I  read  their 
emotions.  And  again,  at  another,  I  had  visited 
the  convicts  again ;  and  both  were  uniting  in 
praise.  And  in  all  this,  every  thing  was  tan- 
gible and  near.  It  was  not  "  such  stuft*  as 
dreams  are  made  of,"  in  common  cases.  The 
forms  continued  after  my  eyes  were  opened. 
I  had  to  reason  that  these  things  were  not  as 
they  appeared.  So  difficult  may  it  be  to  re- 
move the  phantasms  of  an  agitated  mind. 

At  a  late  hour  I  arose.  A  messenger  was 
aw  aiting  me  below .  Judge  my  astonishment, 
when  I  found  him  a  servant  of  the  Superinten- 
dant  w  ith  the  news  of  a  reprieve !  This  seem- 
ed as  unreal  now  as  the  fanciful  visions  of  the 
night. 

It  had  been  contemplated  to  communicate 
the  intelligence  on  the  scaflold.  Until  then, 
the  officer  to  whom  the  reprieve  had  been  sent, 
was  directed,  provisionally,  to  keep  it  undivul- 
ged.  Certain  reasons  of  expediency,  arising, 
I  think,  from  the  state  of  the  more  unhappy 
prisoner,  altered  the  arrangement.  And  at  six 
o'clock — the  hour  fixed  for  the  execution — the 
harbinger  of  good  news  entered  the  cell.  To 
one  of  its  tenants  this  was  an  awful  moment ; 
for  he  had  fainted  before  the  officer  had  spoken. 


28  THE    TWO    PRISOAERS. 

The  other  received  the  information  with  no  vis- 
ible emotion.  He  was  cahn  and  composed; 
uttered  a  half  audible  ejaculation  of  gratitude ; 
and,  without  changing  a  feature,  was  conduc- 
ted through  the  open  air  of  the  court  yard,  to 
the  adjoining  residence  of  the  Superintendant's 
family. 

Such  was  tl^e  information  of  the  Messenger. 

If  this  had  been  the  conclusion  of  the  story, 

I  should  have  drawn  no  very  distinct  inference 

from  it,  excepting  that  of  the  sovereign  mercy 

of  Him  whose  favour  may  reach  us  in  extremes. 

We  should  have  had  "  the  confessions  of  B j 

for  they  were  taken  down  at  his  own  desire. 
We  should  have  read  the  account  of  a  remark- 
able conversion.  And  I  could  not  have  refused 
a  verbal  testimony  of  my  own  strong  hopes,  in 
favour  of  the  penitent.  Whatever  untruths  are 
uttered  in  similar  instances,  and  however  inju- 
dicious their  dissemination  may  be,  I  should 
have  rested  on  something  almosrt  as  firm  as  as- 
surance here. 

Such  were  the  reflections  which  occu})ied 
my  mind,  soon  after  the  intelligence  of  pardon 
from  the  Executive. 

A  week  afterwards,  I  met  an  evening  party  of 
pious  acquaintances,  at  the  house  of  a  friend. 
Among  these  were  two  Clergymen  of  eminent 


THE    TWU    ritlSJO.NF.RS.  -^.^ 

reputation  for  [iwty  ajid  acquiicnieiits.  Tlui 
conversation  turned  on  *'  Tlie  Two  Prisoners." 
I  learnt  that  one  of  thein  liad  left  the  city  on 
the  night  succeeding  the  news  of  his  reprieve. 

B had  been  received  into  the  house  of  tiie 

Superintendant :  who,  being  a  pious  man,  re- 
tained a  sincere  interest  for  his  late  charge. 
lie  had  furnished  him  every  possible  means  of 
instruction  during  his  confinement ;  often  con- 
versed with  him  ;  and  rejoiced  as  much  as  any, 
in  the  happy  reverse  of  his  prospects.  To  all 
this  he  added  a  more  substantial  proof  of  his 
good  will,  by  making  his  own  house  the  resi- 
dence of  his  charge,  until  some  means  might 
be  devised  for  his  future  support.  "  And  du- 
ring the  past  week,"  it  was  added,  "  his  bene- 
factor has  expressed  much  satisfaction  in  his 

deportment  and  conversation.     B has  fre- 

cpiently  led  in  family  prayer ;  and  his  manner  is 
devout,  subdued  and  humble." 

"  What  a  change  !" — said  3Iiss  O, — a  spright- 
ly young  lady,  who  had  listened  with  great  ap- 
parent interest  to  the  report  of  our  informant — 
"  A  brand  jducked  from  the  fire  !" 

"  I  should  not  repose   uidimited  confidence 

in  the   change,"   said  Mr.  N ,  one    of  the 

Clergymen  present. 


30  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

"  But  surely,  Sir," — said  the  young  lady,  in  a 
voice  that  indicated  feelings  wounded  by  the. 

doubt    just    expressed "  you  can    tell   us 

enough  to  banish   suspicions,  which,  to  say  the 
least,  are  painful  t" 

The  appeal  was  to  myself,  I  recounted  the 
particulars  of  my  memorable  interview,  as  they 
had  already  been  given.  And  I  concluded  with 
an  expression  of  my  own  favourable  feelings  in 
behalf  of  B . 

"  I  confess,"  said  Mr.  N ,  "  there  is  some- 
thing painful  in  the  doubt  I  have  suggested. 
And  that  doubt  may  need  some  apology,  when 
I  add,  to  all  the  testimony  which  has  been  given, 
my  own  acknowledgement  that  I  have  heard 
nothing  prejudicial  to  our  best  hopes,  on  the 
subject.  But  you  may  account  for  my  distrust, 
or  for  my  want  of  the  strcmg  confidence  which 
you  entertain,  when  I  say,  that  the  expected  ap- 
proach of  death  has  been  the  season  of  more 
delusion  than  any  other  in  which  I  have  been 
present.  During  a  ministration  of  thirty  years, 
I  have  known  many  who  expressed  flattering- 
hopes  on  a  death-bed  ;  and  who  have  departed, 
leaving  a  consolatory  feeling  in  the  breasts  of 
surviving  relatives.  But  it  has  been  my  lot  to 
stand  by  the  sick  couch  of  many  others,  whose 
evidence  of  a  spiritual  change,  effected  there. 


TIIK    TWO   PRISONERS.  31 

was  quite  as  complete  ;  and  yet  not  one  of  them 
carried  that  chani»e  into  subsequent  years." 

Mr.  A strengthened  tliis  statement,  from 

his  own  observation :  While  I  could  not  re- 
member that  any  thing,  within  the  range  of 
mine,  contradicted  it : 

"  In  the  case  of  B ,"  continued  Mr.  N , 

"  I  confess  that  my  sympathies  are  all  enlisted. 
But  I  am  not  without  anxiety  for  the  result. 
Time  will  tell  us  more,  hereafter.  In  the  mean- 
while, he  will  be  a  subject  of  prayer  with  all  of 
us.  Yet  I  could  go  very  little  further.  I  would 
not  like  to  say  of  any  one,  in  wiiom  a  recent 
change  has  taken  place,  that  I  am  persuaded 
of  his  stability.  And  in  such  an  instance  as 
this,  though  I  would  hope,  it  would  be  not  with- 
out trembling.     I  do  not  doubt  that  B is 

satisfied  of  the  transformation,  in  himself: 
For  I  attribute  no  deliberate  hypocrisy  to  any 
one,  in  his  circumstances.  In  a  certain  sense, 
I  am  always  assured  of  sincerity  there  ;  and 
even  when  time  has  removed  these  favourable 
appearances  ;  and  the  hitherto  restrained  pas- 
sions have  returned  to  their  natural  course,  I 
would  not  join  the  world  around  me,  in  ascri- 
bing the  past  to  affectation,  or  to  any  sinister 
design.  But  I  know  that  the  change  which 
takes  place  near  to  "  the  article  of  death,"  or 


32  THE    TWO    PRISONERS. 

in  some  other  great  exigency,  is  very  liable  to 
suspicion.  Both  the  faith  and  repentance  of 
such  a  season  are  apt  to  be  spurious.  Yet  this 
self-persuasion  of  pardon  and  peace  may  create 
all  the  outward  appearances  whrch  are  visible 
in  a  true  hope.  A  placid  smile  may  play  on 
the  lips.  A  sweetness  of  expression  may  suf- 
fuse the  whole  countenance.  And  our  own 
feeUngs,  accordingly,  are  prepared  to  give  the 
most  favourable  opinion.  Our  liability  to  mis- 
take is  plain,  when  we  remember  that  true  and 
fictitious  graces  will  produce  the  same  outward 
appearances,  for  the  moment,  in  the  living  or 
dying." 

"  But  when  a  friend  has  really  deceased" — 
rejoined  Miss  O — "  if  that  friend,  on  a  sick 
bed,  had   indicated  all  those  evidences  which 

B has  shewn,  would  you  not  trust  that  all 

is  well  with  him  now  ^  for  he  could  not  return 
to  the  evils  of  the  world."  "  I  should  have 
the  same  confidence,  that  I  have  this  hour  in 

B ,  with  the  following  difference  :   that  in 

the  former  case,  I  should  not  be  able  to  ascer- 
tain the  truth  in  this  world  :  in  the  latter,  we 
may  in  a  few  months,  or  years  at  most,  form 
some  estimate  of  the  true  state   of  the  heart. 

Had  B ,  been  ushered  into  eternity  on  the 

day  ap])ointed  for  his  execution,  he  would  have 
been  as  much  a  Christian  as  he  is  now.     If  his 


THE    l^VO    PRISONERS.  33 

life  and  conversation  be  consistent  with  his 
present  profession,  our  conchision  will  fairly 
be,  that,  in  the  event  of  his  death,  he  would 
have  ascended  where  neither  pain  nor  guilt  is 
known.  But  should  the  reverse  of  this  appear, 
our  inference  will  be,  that  he  would  have  taken 
his  place  among-  the  spirits  of  the  lost.  If  an^ 
gels  ever  rejoiced  in  his  new  birth,  they  will 
continue  to  rejoice.  Their  pleasures  will  never 
be  marred  by  disappointment.  The  rejoicings 
of  Heaven  are  never  for  uncertainties. 

"  In  such  a  time  as  a  dying  hour," — asked  one 
of  the  company, — "  would  not  God  prevent  the 
operations  of  a  deceitful  heart  ?  In  man's  last 
opportunity,  w  ould  he  not  present  the  truth  be- 
fore his  mind !" 

"  There  is  a  mistaken  idea  usually  attached 
to  a  dying  hour" — said  3Ir.  N .  "  We  easi- 
ly connect  with  it  something  that  is  sacred  ; 
something  of  a  peculiar  nearness  and  readiness, 
in  God.  The  very  pain  and  suffering  appear 
expiatory.  So  does  remorse.  Thus  the  con- 
sequences of  sin  are  viewed  as  an  atonement 
for  it.  All  this  is  the  deduction  of  feeling. 
The  Bible  does  not  encourage  it :  and  there  is 
no  reason  for  it.  We  are  as  liable  to  be  de- 
ceived at  such  a  time  as  at  any  other.  Per- 
haps more  so.    The  mental  stupor  which  takes 


34  THE   TWO    PRISONERS. 

possession  of  many,  is  often  mistaken  for  the 
calmness  of  evangelical  peace.  And  the  re- 
signation of  others — of  which  so  much  has 
been  said — is  the  very  essence  of  a  legal  tem- 
per— the  utterance  of  what  is  not  felt ;  or  of 
what  is  forced  upon  the  sufferer,  by  himself,  as 
a  task  to  procure  the  favour  of  God.  Inert- 
ness of  conscience,  owing  to  the  decline  of  the 
faculties,  in  a  sinking  frame,  easily  gives  room 
for  a  delusive  hope  :  and  the  dying  man  him- 
self is  satisfied  because  he  has  no  painful  re- 
flections. Add  to  all  this,  the  prevalent  deceit 
of  the  imagination,  as  likely  to  operate  now  as 
ever." 

"  But  I  have  not  yet  done" — continued  Mr. 

K .    "  A  clear  rpvflation  nf  the  truth  is  too 

frequently  wanted.  Even  the  feelings  of  the 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  who  in  other  cases  is 
faithful,  often  prevent  his  disturbing  the  sick, 
by  questions  that  seem  too  close,  or  doctrines 
too  discriminating.  Many  good  men  act  here 
as  if  a  hint  were  sufficient  on  the  topics  intro- 
duced ;  as  if  the  approach  of  death  would  it- 
self complete  the  lesson,  and  the  mind  were 
now  quick  in  its  apprehensions  of  truth.  Hence 
the  real  state  of  the  heart,  and  the  true  cha- 
racter of  Him  with  whom  we  have  to  do,  are 
very  little  discussed.    These  arc  subjects  whicii 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS,  .% 

seem  too  severe  for  the  diseased,  and  which  the 
circumstance  of  a  supposed  tenderness  of  con- 
science renders  unnecessary.  More  gentle- 
ness— and  gentleness  of  a  mistaken  nature — is 
deemed  expedient  to  the  sinner  dying,  than  to 
the  sinner  in  health." 

"  But,  independently  of  this,  the  constitu- 
tional traits  of  the  sick  are  most  apt  to  come 
into  play  at  such  an  hour.  There  are  some 
men  whose  buoyancy  of  spirit  will  not  permit 
them  to  sink  long  under  sorrow.  They  either 
rise  quickly  to  the  surface  again,  by  the  aid  of 
a  ready  fancy,  or  they  shake  oft*  the  superin- 
cumbent weight,  as  they  escape  to  other,  and 
difterent,  reflections.  Such  men  are  deluded 
by  their  own  vain  imaginations,  from  the  cra- 
dle to  the  grave.  They  never  permit  a  deep 
sense  of  sin  to  afliect  the  heart ;  while  every 
other  kind  of  grief  is  under  some  command. 
We  find  it  hard  to  reach  deep  into  the  bosoms 
of  such  men  :  as  we  do  to  enter  those  of  many 
who  cherish  secret  views  of  their  Maker,  utter- 
ly unevangelical  and  false.  Nor  is  this  all : 
Friends  who  visit  the  couch  of  the  dying  at- 
tempt to  lend  their  assistance  to  make  the  trans- 
ition, from  a  state  of  Nature  to  one  of  Grace, 
more  easy  and  quick.  They  bring  in  an  arti- 
ficial frame  of  mind,  which  satisfies  both  them- 


36  THE   TWO   PRISOAERiJ. 

Shelves  and  the  dying,  while  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  divine  operations  of  faith.  On  the 
whole,  1  am  persuaded,  that  instead  of  there 
being  less  danger  of  deception  than  in  health, 
there  is  much  more." 

"  There  is" — said  a  gentleman  who  had  been 
until  this  evening,  a  stranger  to  most  of  the 
company,  but  who  with  the  rest  of  us,  had  by 
this  time  felt  an  increasing  interest  in  the  de- 
bate— "  there  is,  you  must  allow,  an  eminent 
example  of  mercy  in  a  dying  hour,  in  the  Thief 
crucified  with  the  Saviour  !" 

"  There  is,  indeed.  But  it  is  an  example  of 
a  very  extraordinary  character.  If  a  case  had 
been  presented  to  us  in  the  Bible,  of  one  whom 
redeeming  mercy  reached  in  a  dying  hour  after 
having  ineffectually  pursued  him  in  former  days, 
I  should  consider  it  a  case  in  point.  But  not 
so  here.  The  instance  of  the  dying  Thief 
proves  the  possibility  of  regeneration,  in  a  last 
hour.  And  I  would,  therefore,  never  discou- 
rage any  one  at  this  critical  period.  I  would 
present  the  mercy  of  Jesus  Christ,  as  rich  and 
free.  I  would  never  permit  the  flame  of  hope 
to  go  out,  while  that  of  life  continued  burning. 
I  know  the  power  of  God  ;  and  desire  to  be 
the  last  who  could  deny  the  fulness  of  his  com- 
passign.    I  am  wiUing  to  believe  too,  tliat other* 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  37 

aud  if  you  please,  that  many  other  examples 
of  Avoiider-working  grace,  in  a  deatli  season, 
may  have  been  witnessed  in  a  sin-stricken  world. 
But  that  these  displays  of  sovereif^nty  are  more 
rare  than  our  feelings  would  lead  us  to  believe, 
is  to  me  equally  plain.  The  dying  Thief  was 
an  actor  in  the  most  extraordinary  scene  that 
was  ever  exhibited  on  eartli.  He  was  atrophy 
of  victory  in  a  conflict  between  the  powers  of 
Darkness  and  Light ;  as  the  resurrection  of  many 
of  the  dead  w  as  an  emblem  of  the  great  resur- 
rection hereafter.— But  what  was  the  character 
of  this  man  \  Was  he  one  w  liom  the  spirit  of 
God  had  often  invited  by  his  word,  and  whose 
mind  had  often  been  enlightened  in  vain  \ — one 
who  had  frequently  despised  the  tenders  of  fa- 
vour X — one  who  had  continued  impenitent, 
despite  of  all  admonition  I — Had  he  been  such, 
the  instance  were  certainly  more  encouraging. 
On  the  contrary,  we  have  reason  to  believe  that 
this  man  was  a  member  of  the  numerous  ban- 
ditti, who  inhabited  the  rocks  and  dens  of  Ju- 
dea,  and  who  were  outlawed  from  instruction 
as  well  as  from  society.  He  was  one  who 
believed,  not  in  sight  of  miracles,  but  in  the 
liour  of  the  Sa\iour's  humihation,  when  every 
thing  w  as  opposed  to  his  faith  ;  and  w  hen  the 
disciples  had  deserted  their  master.  I  will  be 
bold  to  say,  that  more  light  avus  communicated 


58  TIIi;    TWU   PRISONERS. 

to  this  companion  of  the  suffering  Messiah, 
than  any  one  of  tlic  disciples  had  then  received  ; 
for  he  seems  to  have  understood  the  true  na- 
ture 9f  the  Saviour's  kingdom,  wliile  they  con- 
tinued ignorant  of  it  some  time  after  his  resur- 
rection. Indeed,  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
case  appear  to  have  rendered  it  a  complete 
anomaly." 

"  What,  then,  do  you  think  of  the  labourers 
called  in  the  eleventh  hour  ?" — inquired  the 
gentleman. 

"  That  is  not  to  our  purpose.  It  related  to 
the  calling  of  the  Gentiles  into  the  Church  of 
God ;  and  cannot,  possibly,  have  any  connex- 
ion Avith  our  subject.  It  was  a  reply  to  a  Jew- 
ish murmur.  But  if  it  were  to  our  purpose, 
you  will  recollect  that  these  labourers  had  not 
been  called  before.      They  are  described  as 

wanting  opportunity. To  return  :     A  death 

bed  repentance  is  certainly  a  departure  from 
the  ordinary  routine  of  the  Creator's  dealing. 
It  is  life  that  he  demands.  It  is  in  life  that  the 
Holy  Spirit  carries  on  the  work  of  sanctifying 
grace — a  gradual  fitting  of  the  soul,  while  the 
example  extends  the  kingdom  of  the  Redeem- 
er. The  process  of  sanctifying  grace  is  not 
usually  that  of  an  hour,  whatever  it  may  be 
under  a  more  extraordinary  influence.     Trial?, 


THE  T^^o  PRisoisf^is.  ;^ 

sorrows,  and  changes,  in  a  variety  of  forms  fall 
to  the  ordinary  lot  of  the  Christian,  as  part  of 
the  means  of  purifying,  humbling,  and  instruct- 
ing him.  Moreover,  if  God  has  demanded  our 
lives,  as  a  service  to  him,  and  as  a  part  of  the 
conditions  of  our  salvation, — if  we  continue  to 
refuse  the  requirement,  will  he,  who  alone 
giveth  repentance,  be  as  likely  to  grant  it  when 
the  choice  of  taking  up  the  yoke  and  burden 
of  Christ  is  no  longer  left  us  i  Thus  far  the 
question  in  relation  to  Jiim  is  against  us.  For 
a  moment  let  us  look  at  it  in  respect  to  the  sin- 
ner himself. — In  health  every  thing  is  more  fa- 
vourable to  serious  thought.  I  know  there  is 
a  prevalent  opinion  to  the  contrary,  which  it  is 
hard  to  remove.  We  are  apt  to  imagine, — as 
accompaniments  of  fatal  disease, — a  tenderness 
of  feeling — a  fixedness  of  thought  on  eternal 
things — a  subdued  temper — freedom  from  temp- 
tation— and  a  preparation,  by  the  nearness  oi' 
another  world,  for  the  inlluence  of  grace.  To 
me  it  is  strange  that  such  fancies  are  so  perti- 
naciously held.  The  lethargy  from  disease — • 
the  racking  of  pain — the  cherished  hope  of  re- 
covery, or  the  eager  grasping  at  it — the  im- 
pairing of  the  judgement — the  dread  of  disso- 
lution— these,  or  a  part  of  them,  as  well  as 
many  other  causes,  are  seriously  against  u«. 


40  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

And  where  there  is  so  much  else  to  tliiiik  of, 
it  cannot  be  easy  to  bend  all  onr  faculties  to  a 
subject  which  requires  their  clearest  exercise 
and  their  constant  play,  while  the  natural  prin- 
ciples and  feelings  of  the  heart  are  repugnant 
to  it."* 

"  There  is  something  depressing  in  that  state- 
ment"'— said  Miss  O.  whose  natural  vivacity 
gave  way  to  truths  which  she  could  not  deny, 
but  which  came  home  with  unusual  seriousness 

to  her  bosom — "  Let  us  return  to  B .    I  have 

thought  it  a  happy  evidence  in  his  favour,  when 
I  heard  of  his  willingness,  and  even  desire,  to 

*  Since  writing  the  above,  the  following  quotation  from  the  works  of  a 
Jiving  writer,  has  met  my  eye: — "  The  amazed  spirit  is  about  to  dislodge — 
who  shall  speak  its  terror  and  dismay  ?  When  he  cries  out  in  the  bit- 
•'  terness  of  his  soul,  '  What  capacity  has  a  diseased  man — what  time 
'"  has  a  dying  man — what  disposition  has  a  sinful  man  to  acquire  good 
••  principles,  to  unlearn  false  notions,  to  renounce  bad  practices,  to  cs- 
"  tablish  right  habits,  to  begin  to  love  God,  to  begin  to  hate  sin  ?  How 
"  is  the  stupendous  concern  of  salvation  to  be  worked  out  by  a  mind 
"  incompclent  to  the  most  ordinary  concerns  ?'  The  infinite  impor- 
tance of  what  he  has  to  do — the  goading  conviction  that  it  must  be 
done — the  utter  inability  of  doing  good — the  dreadful  combination  in 
liis  mind  of  both  the  necessity  and  incapacity — the  despair  of  ciowding 
the  concerns  of  an  age  into  a  moment — the  impossibility  of  beginning 
a  repentance  which  should  have  been  completed — of  setting  about  a 
peace  wliich  should  have  been  concluded — of  suing  for  a  pardon  which 
should  have  been  obtained ;  all  these  complicated  concerns,  without 
strength,  without  time,  without  hope,  with  a  clouded  memory,  a  disjointed 
reason,  a  wounded  spirit,  undefined  terrors,  remembered  sins,  an  anti- 
cipated punishmcMit,  an  angry  God,  an  accusing  conscience,  altogetliei 
intolerably  augment  the  sufferings  of  a  body,  which  stands  in  little  need  o3 
the  insupportable  burden  of  a  distracteii  mind  to  aggravate  its  tor- 
ments.—i/,  Moore 


THE    TWO    PRISONEHS.  41 

die,  expressed  in  much  stronger  terms  than 
those  repeated  to  us  by  3Ir. ,  this  eve- 
ning." 

"  If  so,  I  regret  that  I  cannot  agree  with  you 
even  here.  As  a  general  rule,  I  believe  it  may 
be  said,  that  men  arc  seldom  in  the  best  state 
of  mind  when  they  arc  foncard  to  die.  To 
feel  that  it  is  better  to  depart  may  be  the  ex- 
ercise of  a  lively  hope  ;  but  let  it  be  separated 
from  a  sense  of  our  duty,  and  from  a  predominant 
wish  for  whatever  is  most  to  our  Redeemer's 
glory,  and  there  is  a  defect  in  such  a  feeling 
that  betrays  an  unhallowed  selfishness.  When 
the  prophet  sat  under  the  Juniper  tree  and 
prayed  for  death,  I  do  not  believe  him  to  have 
been  in  the  best  frame  of  mind.  Good  men 
may  display  the  same  folly  ;  but  it  will  be  in 
their  bad  moments.  And  conduct  at  such  times 
is  no  proper  precedent  for  us." 

*'  But  are  there  not  certain  evidences  which 
we  must  admit  to  be  infallible  V^ 

"  I  should  not  like  to  attach  so  strong  an 
epithet  to  any  which  have  existed  only  for  a 
short  time.  15ut  what  evidences  would  seem 
to  approach  this  character  V 

"  I  do  not  exactly  know.  Suppose  we  beijin 
first,  witli  a  fleep  sense  of  nuilt  V 


6 


12  THE    TWO   PRISO.XEUaf. 

"  A  sense  of  guilt,  to  a  gretiter  or  less  de- 
gree, will  certainly  precetio  conversion,  although 
its  intensity  may  vary  in  cliflerent  persons.  But 
you  want  some  designating  quality,  as  an  appen- 
dage to  this  evidence.  You  are  yet  to  be  con- 
vinced that  this  sense  of  guilt  is  not  of  a  legal 
character :  that  mere  dread  of  punishment 
which  belongs  to  our  desire  of  self-preserva- 
tion ;  or  that  feeling  of  horror,  which  belongs 
to  many  a  remorseful  spirit ;  and  which  is  at 
least  as  likely  to  disparage  the  honor  of  God 
as  to  promote  it.  If  you  refer  to  evangelical 
repentance,  you  are  certainly  right.  But  this 
is  begging  the  question.  We  want  some  proof 
that  the  repentance  is  evangelical ;  and  not  a 
sorrow  which  may  '  work  death'  in  one  form, 

if  it  do  not  in  another." "  I  will  go  on," — 

continued  Miss  O.  "To  this  I  would  add  sor- 
row for  the  sins  of  others.  David  mourned 
for  the  sins  of  the  people,  as  well  as  for  his 
own." 

"  You  are  right.  The  true  penitent  will  look 
with  abhorrence  on  iniquity.  Like  the  convict- 
ed Corinthians,  he  will  feel  a  holy  indignation 
against  sin.  And  happy  is  it  for  him  that  he 
does  so.  But  here,  too,  you  are  assuming  a 
postulate  which  is  not  yet  conceded.  A  con- 
fession of  sin,  and  a  true  sense  of  it.  are,  some- 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  43 

times  very  dilTcrent  things.  The  abandoned 
.sinner  in  the  hour  of  dan2,er  may  both  feel  and 
confess  his  guilt.  And  ii  he  iiavc  composure 
enough  to  think,  he  may  see  and  confess  '  the 
exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin'  every  where.  Or. 
what  is  more  to  our  point,  he  may  believe  that 
he  does  so.  Now,  what  I  have  to  ask  for  here, 
is  the  une(juiv()cal  nmrk  of  sincerity." 

"  I  will  strengthen  tjie  case.  My  example 
shall  acknowledge  the  olfencc  of  his  past  life, 
to  be  against  his  God :  not  merely  as  a  matter 
which,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  must  bring 
its  after-woe,  but  as  an  evil  against  the  right- 
ous  Judge  of  the  Universe  :  he  shall  cry,  "  against 
thee,  and  thee  only  have  I  sinned,  and  done 
this  great  evd." 

"  Very  good  :"  rejoined  Mr.  N ,  "  all  this 

ts  the  language  of  the  true  penitent.  But  you 
are  to  recollect  that  we  are  now  looking  for 
something  more  than  language,  however  strong 
and  ex))ressive  it  may  be.  Confessions  may 
rank  very  low  in  the  list  of  infallihles.^^ 

"  True,  sir.  But  may  not  their  consistency 
and  cliaracter  go  far  \  their  consistency  w  ith 
themselves,  and  the  tone  of  their  character, 
conformed  to  that  of  admitted  examples  ?  Now- 
let  me  give  a  few  more  strokes  to  my  picture  : 
and  then  look  at  it   as  a  whole  :     There   shall 


44  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

be  an  acknowledgement  of  the  justice  of  God. 
in  his  sentence  against  the  guilty.  Good  re- 
sokitions  shall  follow  ;  and  these  shall  be  made 
before  God." 

"  Excellent ! — You  certainly  do  well  in  com- 
paring the  different  dispositions  of  mind  with 
one  another,  as  we  sometimes  compare  one  Chris- 
tian grace  with  another,  in  order  to  ascertain  its 
worth  :  or,  as  we  look  for  other  graces,  where  we 
see  the  appearance  of  one.  But  you  know  that 
where  one  grace  is  spurious,  all  the  rest  will 
be  so  likewise  ;  for  altliough  all  our  graces  may 
not  be  in  equal  exercise,  none  will  be  wanting. 
Now,  if  a  single  fictitious  quality  of  religion 
present  an  attractive  appearance,  much  more 
will  a  combination  do  so.  And  your  picture, 
as  a  whole,  beautiful  as  it  might  be  to  the  hu- 
man eye,  may  he  very  unacceptable  in  the  sight 
of  God. 1  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  hy- 
percritical. And  I  know  that  there  does  ap- 
pear something  unamiable  in  a  severe  analysis 
of  principles  which  our  humanity  would  pass 
as  "  stamp-proof,"  without  examination.  But 
as  I  have   already  expressed  my   own   strong 

hopes  in  favour  of  B ,   to  whom,   if  you 

please,  we  will  suppose  my  remarks  to  have  no 
application, — you  will  bear  with  me  if  I  ex- 
tend these  remarks  still  further  on  the  general 
question." 


THE    TWO    PRISONERS.  45 

''  There  is"— continued  Mr.   N ,  *•  there 

is  a  portrait  drawn  by  an  inspired  hand,  which 
has  all  the  touches  of  your  own  picture-»-all 
the  evidences  which  you  have  given  to  the  pen- 
itent— and  yet  neither  of  us  would  like  to  be 
the  original." 

"  Indeed  !  in  the  Scriptures  V^ 

•'  Yes  ;  even  there.  In  the  book  of  Exodus, 
you  will  find  an  account  of  one  who  made  a 
publick  confession  of  his  guilt— was  sensible  of 
his  danger— acknowledged  the  righteousness 
of  God — his  own  guilt  against  him,  and  that 
of  his  people  likewise — b(3sought  the  i)rayers 
of  holy  men  in  his  behalf — and  made  the  most 
earnest  resolutions.  A^ow  had  matters  stood 
thus  for  some  days,  without  any  change  in  the 
heart  of  this  individual, — and  had  he  then  died 
a  natural  death,  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  we 
should  not  have  ranked  him  among  the  troj)hies 
of  grace.  But  the  word  of  God  has  left  no 
room  for  doubt.  As  it  has  given  us  no  fair 
example  of  a  death  bed  repentance,  and  that, 
perhaps,  to  prevent  an  undue  reliance  on  such 
hope<5 — while  it  enlarges  much  on  the  goodness 
and  forbearance  of  its  divine  author — so  it  has 
prevented  us  many  examples  of  vain  expccta- 
ions,  and  hypocritical  graces.  In  the  ])resent  one, 
you  have  the  prayer  answered.     And  is  it  not 


46  ^HE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

true,  that  many  a  sinner  awakened  under  ai- 
fliction,  and  apparently  humbled  like  this  man, 
conceives  the  answer  of  his  prayer  for  the  re- 
moval of  affliction  to  be  an  evidence  of  his  ac- 
ceptance and  favour  with  God  I  In  this  case, 
the  confessions  were  not  from  the  heart — the 
resolutions  were  a  consequent  of  mere  perso- 
nal danger — there  was  no  true  humiliation  be- 
fore God — and  there  was  a  desire  to  treat  with 
the  Almighty  on  terms  which  he  never  pre- 
scribed— a  secret  desire  of  which  the  sinner 
may  be  unconscious.  When  the  rod  was  with- 
drawn, every  relenting  feeling  went  with  it. 
And  the  late  sensibilities — like  all  other  un- 
sanctified  sensibility  in  the  day  of  evil  or 
alarm — left  the  heart  more  hardened,  and  more 
ripe  for  its  doom." 

Miss  O.,  during  a  discussion  of  which  I  have 
given  but  a  part,  saw  her  "  infaUiblcs'^  stealing 
away,  one  after  another,  before  either  of  them 
had  sustained  as  rigid  a  scrutiny  as  it  might  have 
received.  She  felt  compelled  to  yield  her  as- 
sent to  truths  which  were  adapted  to  sober  the 
pleasures  of  a  sanguine  and  enthusiastic  fancy. 

"  I  admit," — said  she — "  that  repentance  is 
a  habit,  and  not  an  act.  It  must  accompany 
us  through  life." 


THE    TWO    PKISONERS.  47 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  N ,  "  it  is  this 

very  position  which  renders  our  dependence  on 
deatli-bed  hopes,  at  best  uncertain.  There  is 
no  time  to  try  them.  Tliey  pass  througli  no 
ordeal.  The  criterion  which  the  Redeemer 
gave  us,  "  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them," 
is  out  of  our  reach.  Sensible  of  all  this,  then, 
^vhile  I  would  not  diminish  the  consolation  of  the 
friends  of  a  death-bed  penitent,  by  any  surmises 
of  a  possible  deception — while  I  would  pay  such 
deference  to  their  feelings  as  not  to  infringe 
them — I  would  not  dane  to  raise  the  voice  of  un- 
qualified eulogy  in  behalf  of  the  deparied  ;  lest 
I  inspire  hopes  in  the  bosom  of  procrastinators, 
in  their  own  behalf,  from  a  source  of  whose 
worth  I  am  very  far  from  being  certain.  The 
benevolence  and  compassions  of  God  I  can 
most  gratefully  proclaim.  But  their  applica- 
tion in  any  extraordinary  rase,  without  stronii. 
proof,  I  should  deem  it  unsafe  to  assume,  as  a 
lesson  to  others.  There  is  enough  to  comfort, 
to  warn,  or  to  encourage  us  without  uncertain- 
ties. But  above  all,  I  must  lift  up  my  protes- 
tations against  these  "  Dying  Confessions  ;" 
which  are,  often,  not  so  much  a  record  of  crime 
as  demonstrations  of  the  facility  with  which  a 
hardened,  and  perhaps  blood-stained  convict 
passes  from  villainy  to  saint<hip." 


48  THE    TWO   PRISONERS. 

"  There  was  no  disposition  in  any  one  pre 
sent  to  dispute  the  ground  on  which  Mr.  N- 


was  standing  ;  or  to  extend  the  limits  of  expec- 
tation, in  behalf  of  the  dying,  beyond  a  hope 
proportioned  to  the  possible  evidence  in  its  fa- 
vour. We  all  felt  that  to  die  the  death  of  the 
righteous,  there  was  no  positive  assurance  given 
except  that  derived  from  living  his  life. 

The  conversation  now  took  a  diflerent  turn  ; 
and  after  an  agreeable  and  improving  hour, 
and  a  prayer  led  by  one  of  the  ministers,  in 
which  B was  not  forgotten,  the  party  se- 
parated. 

There  was  a  charm  in  the  converse  of  this 
pious  party  of  which  it  is  not  always  om*  lot  to 
partake.  If  it  be  true  that  religion  is  dishon- 
oured where  its  professors  have  met  to  enjoy 
the  gossip  of  tlie  day,  and  where  each  of  them 
is  pandering  for  the  ready  ear  of  another,  the 
contemptible  tattle  of  the  neighbourhood,  and 
where  each  acquires  a  taste,  if  not  a  skill  in 

the   dissection   of  character. If  it  be   true 

that  piety  sinks  in  the  estimation  of  the  world, 
where  its  professors  have  not  been  instructed 
in  the  principles  of  charity  for  each  other  ;  and 
where  a  mutual  confidence  rises  or  sinks  as 
selfishness  is  flattered  or  threatened — it  is 
ecjiudly  true  that  there  are  few  engagements 
more  promotive  of  faith  in  God,  more  improv- 


THE   TWO  PRISONERS.  49 

itig  to  ourselves,  or  more  happy  in  their  effects 
on  the  heart  and  life,  than  an  intercourse  with 
those  whose  single  aim  is  to  ripen  for  heaven. 
The  exchange  of  sentiment,  which  gathers  the 
riches  of  experience  as  it  passes  from  one  to 
another — the  collision  of  argument  where  truth 
and  not  victory  is  the  end  proposed — and  even 
the  lively  repartee  which  comes  home  to  its 
mark,  but  never  wounds — and  then  those  hap- 
py communications  that  make  glad  the  child  of 
Zion,  and  (ill  his  heart  with  praise — and  that 
interchange  of  views,  in  which  co-workers  with 
Christ  are  consulting  the  advancement  of  his 
glory — how  they  bless  the  hours,  while  they 
wing  them  away  to  bear  up  their  report  to  hea- 
ven !  Such  seasons  as  these  are  among  the 
brightest  spots  in  our  pilgrimage.  And  when 
we  have  trodden  far  beyond  them,  we  can  some- 
times pause,  and  look  back,  and  see  the  light 
around  them,  faint  in  the  distance,  but  unex- 
tinguished still ! 

There  was  another  reason  why  I  could  not 
have  forgotten  the  conversation  of  this  evening. 

Two  months  afterwards,  B left  the  house 

of  the  friendly  Superintendant,  with  the  osten- 
sible view  of  accepting  an  ofler  from  a  relative 
in  a  distant  state  in  the  Union.     His  patron, — 

it  was  said, — expressed  no  regret  at  the  part- 

7 


50  THE   TWO   PIMSOIVERS. 

ing ;  although  he  was  equally  silent  in  regard 
to  any  thing  unfavourable  to  his  late  charge. 
At  the  expiration  of  three  years,  an  advertise- 
ment  was  observed  in  several  of  the  daily  prints, 
copied  from  a  similar  pubhcation,  in  the  State 

of  T ,  offering  a  reward  for  a  culprit,  the 

description  of  whom  corresponded  with  that 

of  B .     It  was  now  ascertained  that  the 

latter  had  not  left  the  dwelhng  of  his  Patron 
until  after  an  act  of  ingratitude  and  crime, 
which  pity  for  his  condition  had,  hitherto  kept 
secret  in  the  family, 

The  sequel  of  the  story  is   short.— B 

was  indeed  the  advertised  criminal.  lie  had 
assumed  a  name  that  gave  him  an  "  alias''— the 
usual  appendage  of  public  roguery.  He  was 
arrested.  He  died  without  any  other  appa- 
rent compunction  than  that  of  regret,  express- 
ed with  an  oath,  that  "  he  had  not  been  per- 
mitted to  pay  the  penalty  of  the  law  three  years 
before,  when  he  might  have  left  the  world  in 
better  circumstances." 

And  now,  if  I  could  present  a  common  an- 
tithesis of  fact,  in  the  end  of  his  former  com- 
panion in  guilt— If  I  could  write  pmce,  where 
despair  was  once  so  legible,  I  might  increase 
the  interest  of  the  melancholy  story,  by  a  de- 
nouement which  is  commonly  expected,  and 


/ 


THE    TWO   PRISONERS.  51 

which  is  not  witliout  its  interest  to  a  reader  : 
but  of  tliis  second  culprit  I  have   heard  no 


more.- 


THiE  COUNTRY  PASTOR'S  FUNERAL, 

"  Clay  to  clay,  and  dust  to  dust ! 
"  Let  tliem  mingle — for  they  must ! 
"  Give  to  earth  the  earthly  clod, 
"  For  the  spirit's  fled  to  God. 

"  Dust  to  dust,  and  clay  to  clay  1 
"  Ashes  now  witii  ashes  lay  ! 
"  Earthly  mould  to  earth  be  given, 
"  For  the  spirit's  fled  to  Heaven. 

"  Deep  the  pit,  and  cold  the  bed 
"  Where  the  spoils  of  death  are  laid  ; 
"  Stiff  the  curtains,  chill  the  gloom 
"  Of  man's  jnelaucholy  tomb. 

"  Look  aloft !  the  spirit's  risen — 
"  Death  cannot  the  soul  imprison  : 
'"Tis  in  Heaven  that  spi>its  dwell, 
"  Glorious,  though  invisible." 

It  was   a  memorable   day  to  the  inhabi 

tants  of  the  little  valley  of  P .     From  the 

house  of  the  thrifty  farmer  down  to  the  cottage 
of  the  day-labourer,  every  tenement  had  given 
up  its  inhabitants.  Here,  fatliers  might  have 
been  seen  leading  their  children  slowly  up  the 
knoll  on  which  the  Parsonage  stands,  followed 
by  the  mother  with  her  infant  offspring.  Un- 
der those  Elms,  which,  a  fortnight  since,  threw 
a  deep  shade  over  the  humble  mansion,  but 
which  were  now  reliquishing  thcii*  foliage;  you 


54  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR's   FUNERAL. 

might  have  beheld  groups  of  older  and  young- 
er men,  listening  to  those  who  claimed  the  pri- 
vilege of  speaking,  or  whose  opportunities  en- 
abled them  to  tell  something  of  the  last  hours 
of  the  departed.  There,  you  might  have  heard 
an  aged  Christian,  describing  the  solemnity  of 
an  installation  some  thirty  years  gone  by ;  while 
the  youth  around  him  hung  upon  his  lips,  and 
recurred,  at  the  close  of  the  tale,  to  the  melan- 
choly occasion  on  which  they  had  now  assem- 
bled. And  there,  you  might  have  learned  the 
beginning  and  progress  of  a  disease  that  sun- 
dered the  pastoral  connexion,  and  recalled  the 
ambassador  of  God  to  his  final  account. 

A  few  yards  from  this  spot,  you  might  have 
passed  through  the  throng  which  skirted  the 
dwelling,  and  entered  the  house  of  mourning. 
There  was  no  sable  habiliment  to  announce 
the  work  of  death — save  a  few  black  hoods 
that  denoted  a  distant  relationship  in  the  wear- 
ers— but  nature  had  clothed  every  countenance 
in  a  garb  of  unfeigned  sorrow. 

The  two  rooms,  which,  with  a  narrow  entry 
composed  the  ground  floor,  were  occupied  by 
females,  indiscriminately  seated.  In  the  cen- 
tre of  one  of  these,  a  plain  walnut  coffin  rested 
on  a  low  bier.  It  was  unroofed  :  and  the  un- 
covered face  of  its  tenant  was  visible.    It  was 


THE    COUNTRY    PASTOR  S   FUINERAL.  55 

4)Iacicl  and  serene  ;  and  exhibited  more  of  the 
aspect  of  an  unconscious  invahd,  than  of  one 
from  whom  the  living  spirit  had  fled.  There 
was  nothing  ghastly  in  it,  nothing  appalling, 
nothing  repulsive.  You  would  have  said  of 
the  inanimate  frame,  as  the  Apostle  said  of 
former  companions  of  the  Redeemer,  that  it 
had  "  fallen  asleep." 

There  w  as  one  eye  fixed  on  the  spectacle. — 
It  was  that  of  a  minister  of  the  Gospel,  whose 
iield  of  labour,  some  four  miles  distant,  was 
one  of  the  adjoining  parishes.  He  had  been  the 
confidential  friend  of  the  deceased  during  one 
half  the  term  of  his  ministry.  They  were  of 
kindred  feeling  and  congenial  tempers.  The 
sincerity  of  the  friendship  of  either  had  never 
been  tried  by  jealousy  or  suspicion.  The  sur- 
vivor was  past  the  climacteric  of  sixty.  The 
departed  had  not  quite  reached  it.  But  the 
heads  of  both  were  blanched :  and  the  furrows 
which  care  had'made  were  equally  deep. — This 
spectator  did  not  w  eep.  His  gaze  was  serious, 
and  half-vacant :  and  it  had  continued  so  for 
an  hour.  It  was  plain  that  the  workings  of 
the  soul  were  elsewhere  ;  and  you  could  have 
surmised,  from  that  look,  the  very  locality  of 
thought.  Fancy  had  blended  the  absent  and 
present  spirit  together.     And  the  survivor  seem- 


56  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR's    FUXERAL. 

ed  but  half  earthly,  while  his  mind  wandered 
on  to  the  new  abode  of  his  friend. 

There  is  something  sacred  in  sorrow, 

even  to  him  who  cannot  enter  into  all  its  sym- 
pathies ;  unless  sensuality  has  brutalized  the 
faculties,  or  ferocious  habits  have  curdled  the 
milk  of  uman  kindness.  But  where  that  sor- 
row is  mingled  with  piety,  and  broods,  for  a 
season,  over  its  object,  with  all  the  softened 
feelings  of  Heavenly  hope,  it  is  difficult  to  res* 
train  our  respect.  It  was  so  here.  Each  in 
this  assembly  of  mourners — while  she  forgot 
not  her  personal  loss — as  she  glanced  at  this 
abstracted  man  of  God,  seemed  unwilling  to 
break  in  on  his  grief,  while  she  made  efforts  to 
repress  the  utterings  of  her  own. 

The  long  preparatory  interval,  between  the 
collecting  of  the  attendants,  and  the  movement 
toAvards  the  "  narrow  house,"  which  usually 
occurs  in  the  obsequies  of  the  dead,  and  which 
seemed  to  have  been  protracted  here  by  a  re- 
luctance to  give  up  the  cold  remains,  was  now 
drawing  to  a  close.  The  low  hum  of  appronch- 
insT  voices  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  was  the 
nearing  of  the  ministers  of  death.  There  was 
no  conductor  of  ceremonies.  None  of  that 
form  of  proceeding  so  general  in  tiic  interment 


THE  country-pastor's  FUNERAL.     57 

of  the  great,  and  so  long  established  by  custom 
in  populous  cities. 

Tiiree  parishioners,  of  whom  one  was  the 
Senior  Elder  of  the  Church  entered  the  door 
of  the  apartment  in  silence.  Another  followed, 
supporting  the  feeble  widow,  who  had  just  de- 
scended from  her  chamber,  attended  by  two 
daughters,  whose  unveiled  faces  betokened  the 
elTects  of  sleeplessness  and  weeping.  They  ad- 
vanced in  turn,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  on  the 
chilled  lips  of  the  dead,  followed  by  a  gush  of 
feeling  that  forced  the  flood-gates  which  would 
have  restricted  it  within  its  bounds.  3Iany 
who  were  present  imitated  an  example  which 
nature  dictated,  and  which,  I  am  sure,  nature 
would  have  defended. 

Oh,  there  is  a  power  in  love,  whose  energy 
overcomes  all  other  feeling  !  The  lips  of  the 
living  and  dead  were  united — and  no  shrink- 
ing was  there.  The  same  principle  which  sup- 
ported the  affectionate  female  disciples  of  Jesus 
to  the  place  of  his  sepulchre,  and  banished  the 
superstitions  of  the  spot  and  the  hour,  attached 
a  dearness  to  the  cold  frame  of  the  departed 
husband,  father  and  pastor,  and  imparted  a 
warmth  to  the  lips  so  unconsciously  pressed. 
It  is  love,  too,  which  bears  up  the  bereaved,  in 

the  midnight  visit  to  the  chambers  of  the  dead ; 

8 


58        THE  country-pastor's  funeral. 

without  the  intrusion  of  idle  fancy,  or  the  fears 
of  a  disturbed  imagination.  Oh  yes  ;  and  it  is 
the  same  principle  Avhich  familiarizes  the  ap- 
proach of  dissolution  to  the  dying  Christian^ 
lights  the  dark  passage  before  him,  and  utters 
its  greeting  to  the  stern  realities  of  an  untried 
moment. 

In  the  midst  of  sobs  more  audible,  the  scene 
became  one  of  more  activity.  Numbers  of  the 
crowd,  who  had  stood  by  the  door,  as  if  w  ait- 
ing  the  last  opportunity  of  beholding  a  counte- 
nance beloved  in  life,  entered  the  room  in  sin- 
gle file- — passed  round  the  coffin, — stood  for  a 
moment  at  its  head — and  successively  gave 
room  to  others.  Here  and  there,  the  line  was 
broken  by  one  or  another,  who  paused  still 
longer  to  take  hold  of  one  of  the  hands  that 
crossed  each  other  on  the  breast  of  death.  It 
was  a  hand  with  which  they  Avere  familiar  : 
and  its  affectionate  grasp  had  often  seconded 
a  sincere  inquiry  into  their  welfare. — The  in- 
gress became  gradually  more  infrequent,  until 
it  ceased  altogether. 

The  se  ior  Elder  advanced  with  his  two  as- 
sistants to  the  bier.  Another  pause  succeeded  : 
a  low  whisper  might  have  been  faintly  heard — 
and  the  gaze  of  the  three  was  directed  to  the 
venerable  minister  whose  office  it  was  to  per- 


THE  COUXTRT-PASTOR's  FUNERAL.     50 

form  the  last  duties,  which  society  pays  to  its 
its  iiieiiibers,  for  the  kite  friend  of  his  bosom. 
He  stirred  not.  His  visage  continued  unalter- 
ed.' His  eye  was  yet  unfilled.  A  hundred  had 
successively  stood  between  him  and  the  ajipa- 
rent  object  of  his  look — still  it  remained  unal- 
tered— not  a  muscle  had  moved. 

The  work  proceeded.  The  lid  of  the  coffin 
was  slowly  put  on  its  place.  The  two  parish- 
ioners fitted  the  fastenings.  I  am  not  confi- 
dent— but  I  thought  I  saw  the  head  of  one  of 

them  averted  in  the  act. The  grating  of  the 

screw  succeeded.  There  was  something  start- 
ling anew  in  the  sound.  Heavy  sighs  could 
be  heard.  And,  in  one  instance,  a  loud  groan 
came  full  on  the  ear. — I  could  not  wonder  at 
this :  I  could  have  echoed  it  back.  A  frosty 
shuddering  crept  over  me.  I  reflected  on  the 
imprisonment  of  the  body — and  it  was  all  we 
had  of  one  beloved — the  care  taken  to  confine 
it— the  last  look  at  the  deceased — and  there  is 
something  in  that  term  last,  which  forces  on 
us  a  sense  of  utter  bereavement  and  loneliness — 
A  momentary  colour  slightly  tinged  the  cheek 
of  the  surviving  friend,  and  gave  place  again  to 
its  former  paleness.  He  arose  :  stood  for  a 
moment  as  if  to  recall  the  powers  of  a  mind 
whose  forces  had  been  scattered,  or  to  summon 


60         THE  country-pastor's  funeral. 

resolution  for  the  duties  before  him.  He  walk- 
ed to  the  porch — looked  around  on  the  await- 
ing congregation,  and  sat  heavily  on  the  seat 
that  was  near  him.  I  know  not  what  passed 
within  his  breast,  but  I  know  there  was  a  con- 
flict there.  This  was  the  summer-evening's 
seat  of  the  deceased.  And  it  had  been  a  thou- 
sand times  the  spot  where  they  had  taken  sweet 
counsel  together.  It  was  rich  in  the  imagery 
of  the  past  to  a  memory  active  in  re-calling  the 
by-gone  scenes.  But  it  possibly  reminded  of 
a  present  desolation.  And  so  might  all  that 
was  around  it.  The  half  denuded  rose-tree, 
which  the  season  was  unclothing — the  red-ber- 
ried vine  secured  to  the  wall  of  the  parsonage, 
and  the  Indian-creeper  that  crossed  its  Avay, 
and  encroached  on  its  territory — all  reminded 
cf  the  hands  that  had  reared  them,  and  which 
were  soon  to  moulder  and  mingle  in  dust. 

There  are  inomcnts  which  condense  the  deal- 
ings and  doings  of  years :  and  bring  the  words 
and  thoughts  which  accompanied  them  within 
a  narrow  compass.  But  they  are  moments 
which  have  "  a  local  habitation  :"  when  things 
around  us  prompt  the  memory,  and  speak 
their  several  parts.  It  is  a  combination  which 
retrieves  from  oblivion  much  that  is  painful, 
and  much  that  is  lovely.     Such  was  the  scene 


THE    COUiMIl\ -pastor's    rUISliUAL.  Gl 

and  time  I  am  describing  now.  Yet  much  as 
they  told,  their  duration  was  short.  A  siiuf- 
fling-  sound,  folh)wetl  by  the  laden  bier,  sup- 
ported on  the  shoulders  of  four  young  men, 
again  recalled  to  himself  the  abstracted  occu- 
pant of  the  porch. 

The  line  of  movement  was  taken  up.  The 
ranks  were  filled  in  order.  The  sound  of  the 
Church-bell  struck  for  the  first  time  on  the  ear ; 
and  it  vibrated  to  the  heart  of  every  auditor. 
That  bell  had  never  sounded  a  regular  note 
before.  It  had  been  suspended  only  two  days 
previously  to  this  visit  of  death.  It  was  the 
purchase  of  a  subscription  raised  by  the  de- 
ceased, and  augmented  by  his  personal  liberal- 
ity.    It  gave  its  first  knel  to  him. 

I  know  not  what  there  might  have  seemed 
portentous  in  this.  But  I  know  that  in  such 
hours  the  heart  is  credulous  in  omens.  We 
suspect  leadings  to  the  future  in  things  that  are 
present.  The  judgement  acts  with  feebleness. 
Fancy  reigns  sole  directress. 

Oh  how  admirably  adapted  to  meet  all  the 
exigencies  which  a  natural  superstition  creates, 
are  the  principles  of  the  Redeemer's  Gosjjel ! 
And  how  plainly  do  we  see  this  in  proportion 
to  the  simplicity  in  which  they  are  preserved^ 
and    the    purity    iii   which    they    arc   taught ! 


62         THE  country-pastor's  funeral. 

And  how  distinctly  the  converse  of  this  has 
been  seen,  when  the  ambition  and  the  folly  of 
men  have  mixed  their  own  devices  with  the 
principles  of  God.  It  is  undeniably  true  that  the 
spirit  of  man  needs  some  other  stay  than  that 
of  mere  human  teaching.  It  has  its  weaknesses 
even  where  the  intellect  is  most  vigorous.  And 
easy  as  it  may,  generally,  be  to  conceal  them, 
there  are  times  when  they  are  too  distinct  to 
be  unnoted  by  ourselves.  What  wonder,  then 
that  the  favourite  seat  of  superstition  is  the 
bosom  of  the  Infidel ! 

The  procession  advanced,  almost  silently, — 
save  when  a  half  stifled  sob,  or  the  quarter 
minute  strokes  of  the  bell,  varied  its  stillness. — 
What  a  season  for  reflection ! 

Who  can  recount  the  consequences  which 
flow  from  the  death  of  a  faithful  ambassador 
of  God  ?  The  demise  of  a  moarch  changes 
the  hands  of  government,  and  gives  a  new  cast 
to  the  temporal  destiny  of  its  subjects.  But 
in  all  this,  hardly  a  perceptible  eflect  may  take 
place  in  the  fate  of  their  souls.  From  the  de- 
cease of  a  spiritual  teacher,  effects  shall  flow 
far  and  wide  through  eternity. — His,  is  a  long 
account :  for  his,  was  a  task  of  no  less  than 
infinite  moment. 


THE  country-pastor's  flneral.         C3 

It  required  a  resoliitiou  of  sacred  imparting'. 
It  called  for  the  breatliinos  of  a  Heavenly  Spi- 
rit. It  needed  a  holy  jealousy  for  the  rights  of 
Jehovah.  It  demanded  a  patience,  and  yet  a 
zeal  and  a  meekness,  which  belong  to  no  na- 
tural mould  of  man.  It  enjoined  an  activity 
in  the  midst  of  the  infection  of  spiritual  death. 
It  imposed  a  responsibility  from  which  an  un- 
aided angel  might  shrink,  and  leave  the  duty 
undone.  And  yet  the  weakest  of  mortals, 
nerved  by  power  divine,  might  take  up  the  bur- 
den. It  was  to  such  feeble  hands,  that  the 
great  Head  of  the  Church  committed  this  stu- 
pendous work  from  the  beginning  :  And  it  is 
still  by  instruments  of  flesh  and  blood  he  moves 
on  the  mighty  wheels  of  his  moral  govern- 
ment. 

The  cares,  the  hopes,  and  the  pleasures  of 
a  faithful  ministration  are  of  a  class  peculiar 
to  themselves.  No  untried  man  may  fairly  con- 
ceive them.  But  when  his  work  is  done,  and 
the  ofticer  goes  up  to  return  his  commission  to 
Him  who  gave  it,  there  are  arrears  at  whose 
unfolding,  humanity  might  revolt.  And  there 
shall  they  stand,  until  the  iinal  day  when  they 
confront  all  whom  they  concerned. 

This  was  no  field  of  fancy  for  the  specula- 
tions of  a  busv  mind.     While  I  felt  assured  of 


64        THE  couiv try-pastor's  funeral. 

the  peace  of  the  departed — while  I  could  not 
doubt  of  his  rest  and  hisjoy — I  was  sensible,  too, 
that  many  there  were  wending  their  way  to 
the  "  the  long  home"  of  his  body,  towards  whom 
he  stood  now  in  a  new  and  awful  character 
For  them,  his  earnest  tones  of  importunity,  and 
the  voice  of  his  prayer  were  to  be  heard  no 
more.  For  them,  in  whose  behalf  he  had  plead- 
ed to  their  own  souls,  and  to  their  God,  he  had 
exchanged  the  title  of  minister  of  reconcilia- 
tion, for  that  of  icitness  before  the  throne  of 
Jehovah.  Whatever  the  issue  of  a  succeeding 
ministry,  privileges  of  a  certain  description  had 
passed  away.  The  herald  of  many  years  was 
ffone.  And  the  messass^e  he  had  delivered  was 
*•  the  savour  of  life  unto  life,  or  of  death  unto 
death." — Could  they  have  realized  for  a  single 
instant,  all  that  this  reflection  told — could  they 
have  seen  the  new  epoch  now  marked  in  their 
lives,  how  would  fearfulness  have  covered  the 
history  of  the  past,  and  extended  into  the  un- 
certainty of  the  future  ! — But  no  :  we  bless  the 
chamber  where  the  good  man  dies  :  we  pay  the 
deference  of  funeral  rites  :  we  honor  virtues  of 
which  we  scarcely  thought  in  the  living  example : 
and  perhaps  we  cover  weaknesses  which  belong 
to  mortality  in  its  best  estate,  and  which  often 
jnar  to  the  sight  tlie  fairest  Avork  of  grace. — 


THE   COUNTRY   PASTOR's   FUNERAL.  65 

But  hundreds  take  up  the  threadirtgs  of  a  fu- 
neral procession — in  such  a  case  as  this — who 
remember  the  man,  and  forget  the  ambassador. 
Hundreds,  who  find  no  instruction  in  one  of 
the  most  pointed  admonitions  which  Heaven 
ever  sends  to  the  guilty  ;  and  who  see  no  per- 
sonal application  in  a  warning  unequivocal  and 
full. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  if  ever  the 
malignant  hope  of  spirits  accursed,  exulted  in 
one  earthly  scene  above  all  others,  it  were  in 
the  failure  of  the  admonition  here.  And  I  have 
thought,  too,  that  if  the  adversary  of  souls  were 
to  express  his  highest  wish  for  the  doom  of  a 
victim,  it  would  be,  not  that  the  rays  of  the 
Gospel  might  shine  feebly  on  him  ;  nor  that  his 
privileges  might  be  imperfect  and  few  ;  nor  that 
an  unmoved  conscience  should  retain  its  still- 
ness in  the  heart :  it  would  be  the  malicious 
prayer — "  shed  the  light  of  thy  mercy  around 
that  soul — let  the  power  of  thy  law  reach  to 
his  bosom — give  activity  to  his  conscience — 
multiply  his  advantages,  and  vary  his  opportu- 
nities— then  let  habit  render  indifferent  that 
light — let  perverseness  nullify  the  law^ — lull 
conscience  to  rest  again — and  let  every  blood- 
bought  advantage  bring  the  listlessness  of  a  dull 

9 


66  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR's    FUIVERAL. 

monotony— ^this  were  the  highest  triumph  of 
Hell  over  an  ab.indoned  soul !"    . 

I  knew  that  there  were  those  bringing  up  the 
rear  of  our  ranks,  who  had  felt  the  convictions 
of  holy  truth  :  whose  successful  effort  it  had 
been  to  erase  impressions  again  and  again : 
who  remembered  a  solemn  season  to  the  souls, 
with  the  secret  shame  which  a  recollected  hour 
of  weakness  brings — or  with  a  stupid  insensi- 
bility— or  with  an  utter  recklessness  of  all  that 
had  once  scattered  the  hopes  of  a  fictitious 
peace.  And  I  thought,  how  powerless  may 
become  the  most  solemn  appeals  to  the  heart : 
how  the  very  remembrance  of  an  affecting  in- 
terview with  the  departed  pastor,  in  the  day  of 
thoughtfulness,  may  be  perverted  into  a  spirit- 
ual stupefaction  ! 

The  procession  was  now  winding  into  th( 
gateway  of  the  Church-yard.  The  last  stroke 
of  the  bell  was  dying  away :  and,  excepting 
the  obtrusion  of  sorrow,  or  the  light  tread  ovei 
a  gravelled  walk,  w  hich  passed  through  a  beau 
tiful  avenue  of  Locusts,  there  was  a  saddening 
quiet  befitting  the  act  and  the  time.  On  the 
left  of  the  Church,  a  weeping  willow  wavec 
over  tlie  little  mound  of  earth  to  which  ou: 
steps  were  directed.  On  one  side  of  this 
Stood  a  rude  stonC;  with  the  inscription  *. 


iHJu;    COUNTRY    pastor's    FUNERAL.  C7 

A  Tribute 

To  the  Memory  of 

Louisa  R***'* 

Who  dcpaited  (his  life 

Rlay  IS,  18— 

Aged  17  years. 

We  meet  among  the  family  of  Christ. 

It  was  the  uiicoiitli  chiselling  of  a  father's 
hand.  And  the  planting  of  that  willow  was 
his :  and  the  ashes  of  parent  and  child  were 
no\v  to  blend  together. 

The  bearers  deposited  the  bier.  The  Sex- 
ton, a  hard-featnred,  middle  aged  man — placed 
two  ropes  at  the  liead  and  foot  of  the  coffin ; 
and  it  was  let  softly  down  to  the  bed  prepared 
for  its  reception.  The  rnmbliiig  sound  of  the 
withdrawing  ropes  was  like  an  electric  shock 
to  the  multitude  around  us.  But  it  miparted 
very  little  change  to  the  countenance  of  the 
officiating  minister. 

I  could  be  melted  by  the  gush  of  sorrow  that 
bathes  the  face  of  a  suflerer.  I  could  feel  that 
his  woes  have  come  home  to  my  own  bosom 
and  are  the  mutual  property  of  us  both.  Or, 
where  no  such  deep  feeling  has  formed  a  part- 
nership in  woe,  there  must  be  diffiirent  mate- 
rials from  those  of  my  own  constitution  to  re~ 
sist  an  appeal  to  a  momentary  emotion.  But 
there  was  something  far  past  this  in  the  officia. 
ting  minister.     lie  stood  on  the  pile  of  earth 


08  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR'S    FUNERAL. 

which  was  to  cover  the  entombed  body,  and  a 
portion  of  which  had  aheady  descended  under 
tlie  pressure,  and  rattled  on  the  tenement  of 
the  dead.  For  twenty  yards  before  him  the 
ground  was  gently  sloping  ;  and  it  gave  him  a 
fair  command  of  every  eye  that  was  not  cast 
down  or  covered.  As  he  looked  beyond  him, 
I  would  have  given  much  for  a  sketch  of  his 
features.  They  spoke  not  an  effort  to  obtain 
the  mastery  of  his  feelings.  There  was  no 
struggle  between  the  passions  and  the  judge- 
ment. There  was  no  yielding  to  the  strong 
grasp  of  sorrow.  I  have  noted  both  of  these  : 
and  I  could  take  part  in  the  conflict  of  the  for- 
mer, or  participate  in  the  calmness  of  the  lat- 
ter. But  there  was  an  expression  of  some- 
thing here  less  definable  than  either.  It  was 
a  mysterious  expression.  It  might  have  reached 
the  heart  of  him  who  saw  it  and  penetrated  its 
inmost  chambers.  It  would  have  settled  down 
the  most  mercurial  spirits  that  ever  belonged 
to  a  volatile  mind  ;  and  held  forth  something  of 
'principle  to  that  of  the  most  undisciplined.  It 
was  the  outworkings  of  a  vigorous  faith  ;  that 
had  rendered  the  events  and  scenes  around  it 
the  steppings  of  a  ladder  on  which  it  arose  to 
the  Heavens  :  a  faith  well-practised  and  skilful 
in  the  disposition  of  materials  for  its  exercise. 


THE    COUM'RY    PASTOR's    FtiNERAL.  C9 

A  faitli  that  wrought  with  iiotliing  imaginary ; 
but  was  never  at  a  loss  tor  truths  to  nourisli 
and  support  it.  Its  possessor  was  gifted  with 
little  of  the  lore  of  research.  He  believed. 
And  he  possessed  the  enviable  art  of  interpre- 
ting all  that  he  saw,  by  the  rules  of  that  hal- 
lowed belief,  and  then  of  appl}  ing  the  result  to 
its  confirmation.  What  an  a(Unirable  example 
to  the  Christian  !  How  opposite  was  all  :his 
to  that  notion  of  faith  which  views  it  as  the 
mere  assuager  of  a  present  sorrow,  until  time 
shall  hurry  us  on  Ironi  the  sight  of  that  sorrow — 
or  merely  as  the  prop  of  the  departing  soul  in 
its  last  exigency  of  sundering. 

True  faith  is  a  principle.  And  its  strength 
or  weakness  will  depend  on  its  habitual  action, 
or  its  periodical  inertness.  Give  it  to  one 
whose  study  is  not  of  books,  but  men  ;  one  who 
applies  the  truths  from  which  it  spiang  to  all 
that  he  sees — and  whose  every  pursuit  is  inse- 
perable  from  some  of  its  influence — and  there 
exists  not  a  cause  of  action  so  ccpiitablc  and 
so  powerful  in  the  human  bosom.  And  still  is 
there  nothing  in  it  to  neutralize  the  best  affec- 
tions of  our  nature — nothing  to  indurate  sensi- 
bilities which  are  necessary  to  the  hapi)iness  or 
■«vell-])eing  of  society.  If  contemplation  over 
abstract  the  niiud  in  its  seasons,  an  habitual 


70  »rHE    COUNTRY    PASTOr's    FUNERAL. 

activity  in  the  scenes  of  the  world,  will  leave  a 
readiness  to  regard  every  claim  that  world  may 
present. 

Tliis  is  not  speculation.  It  is  truth.  We 
kno\v  too  little, — even  the  most  favoured  among 
us, — of  the  regular  effects  of  this  heavenly  gift. 
We  understand  how  universally  it  might  act ; 
but  restricting  it  too  much  to  times  and  sea- 
sons, we  find  its  influence  irregular,  and  its  pow- 
er fitful  and  capricious.  We  attribute  to  out- 
w/ird  circumstances  all  their  deleterious  conse- 
quences on  our  faith,  when  we  should  have 
learned  to  apply  them  to  its  benefit.  We 
make  too  little  use  of  the  minor  events  of  life, 
when  they  might  have  been  powerful  adjutors 
in  promoting  this  grace.  And  we  too  easily 
forget  that  of  all  the  virtues  of  the  Christian, 
there  is  not  one  that  requires  a  more  habitual 
exercise,  or  sinks  lower  under  neglect :  Not 
one  more  fitted  to  the  state  in  which  we  live, 
or  so  purifying  for  that  to  which  we  are  looking. 
When  the  Christian  reaches  the  destination 
which  awaits  him,  or  approaches  its  confines 
with  collectedness  of  thought,  will  he  not  be 
astonished  that  he  so  little  improved  a  talent 
which  mercy  committed  to  his  trust — that  he 
thought  so  little  of  its  riches — and  saw  so  small 
an  extent  of  its  application  I     And  will  he  not 


THE    COUNTRY    PASTOR's    FUNERAL.  71 

discover  that  much  of  liis  complaint  of  obscu- 
rity of  views  originated  in  remissness  of  his 
own. 

The  man  of  Faith,  who  stood  on  the  mound 
before  me,  was  very  far  from  being  unmoved 
by  the  scene  in  which  he  was  about  to  take  so 
active  a  part.  Like  liim  who  wept  over  the 
suflerings  of  humanity  by  the  tomb  of  Lazarus, 
he  Imd  a  tear  more  ready  for  the  griefs  of  others 
than  for  liis  own.  If  lie  had  acquired  an  habi- 
tual firmness,  there  were  hours  in  which  it  re- 
laxed. And  who  does  not  know  that  it  is  com- 
paratively easy  to  restrict  emotion  within  its 
secret  place,  while  the  tongue  is  permitted  to 
be  silent,  and  no  muscular  action  is  demanded  ? 
And  who  has  ever  officiated  at  the  grave  of  a 
friend  that  did  not  feel  his  firmness  unsettling 

in  the  first  effort  to  speak  I It  was  now    I 

saw  the  lips  before  me  curled  and  quivering. — 

The  eye    filled A  deep    moving  agitation 

shook  the  frame  in  which  it  heaved.  But  it 
was  all  momentary  as  the  pause  it  occasioned. 
A  slight  flush  covered  his  cheeks — tears  flowed 
down  them  in  hurried  succession  ;  and,  as  if  the 
opening  of  their  fountains  had  given  imm<Mliate 
relief,  a  strong  and  melodious  voice  broke  the 
stillness  of  the  assendjly  :  and  callejl  and  rivet- 
ted  the  attention  of  every  auditor  to  the  e.xalt- 


72     THE  COUNTRY  PASTOR  S  FUNERAL. 

ed  subject  on  which  it  was  exerted.  The  speak- 
er commenced  with  a  passage  which  thousands 
of  times  has  dissipated  the  doubts  of  a  dying 
liour,  and  flung  a  cheering  brightness  through 
the   sepulchre   of  the   dead, — and   shall   do  so 

thousands  more "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 

the  life  !" 

It  is  the  suitableness  of  Scripture  to  our  cir- 
cumstances which  gives  it  its  efiicacy,  and  its 
value.  And  there  is  not  in  all  the  record  of 
Holy  Writ,  language  which  breathes  with  more 
sweetness  than  this,  or  tells  with  more  energy, 
to  the  heart  of  the  Christian  mour!.er:  "  I  am 
the  resurrection — the  resurrection  and  the  life  !" 
Behold  a  short-termed  loan  to  the  grave  :  And 
the  king  of  terrors  shall  restore  it  again — res- 
tore it  with  interest :  It  is  a  loan  of  mortali- 
ty— returned  immortal :  Given  in  putrefac- 
tion— repaid  in  spiritual  glory  ! 

I  would  make  no  effort  to  record  the  sub- 
stance of  the  address  which  followed.  It  pos- 
sessed but  little  nerve  of  diction  ;  neither  a  trope 
Hor  an  ornament :  and  }  ct  it  w  as  eloquent :  But 
it  was  the  eloquence  of  nature,  derived  from 
tlse  occasion,  which  gave  it  birth  ;  and  promo- 
ted by  the  richness  of  the  fteld  on  which  it 
played.  I  could  have  pencilled  the  scenery 
around  me  :  I  could  now  have  painted  the  il- 


THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR  S   FUNERAL.  73 

luniinatctl  countenance  of  the  speaker.  But 
these  were  matter.  No  skill  could  have  traced 
the  movements  of  mind — felt  as  they  were. 
Neither  pen  nor  pencil  could  have  imboched 
for  the  eye,  the  beauty,  majesty  and  harmony 
,  of  the  whole  :  For  it  loas  a  whole  ;  complete 
in  all  its  simplicity.  It  poured  forth  without 
the  semblance  of  exertion — a  clear,  smooth, 
unbroken  current.  Or,  if  a  partial  falter  once 
or  twice  interrupted  its  course,  it  w  as  only  to 
give  the  variety  of  the  dashing  torrent  that  fol- 
lowed, and  that  whelmed  and  swept,  all  l)efore 
it :  For  it  did  sweep  all  before  it.  Whatever 
the  fruit  of  this  occasion,  which  the  Judgement 
day  may  reveal,  not  an  auditor  was  now  im- 
moved.  There  was  no  flattery  to  the  virtues 
or  memory  of  the  departed.  After  a  revela- 
tion of  the  hopes  of  "  the  dead  that  die  in  the 
Lord,"  and  an  expression  of  confidence  in  the 
happiness  of  the  deceased,  or  of  consolation  to 
surviving  friends,  the  office  of  the  departed  was 
brought  to  act  on  the  circumstances  and  expe- 
rience of  all.  Here  was  room  for  a  touching 
pathos — the  winning  persuasive — or  the  grave, 
and  sometimes  terrific,  warning. 

"  To  all  of  you  he  tendered  the  instruction  of  a 
spiritual  counsellor." And  here  were  babes 

in  Christ,  whom  he  had  carried  in  his  arms  ;•— 

10 


74 

He  had  often  hushed  their  fears — advised  in 
temptation — obviated  ditHculties — and  poured 
the  Hght  of  knowledge  where  ignorance  had 
clouded  their  prospects.  And  there  were  fa- 
thers and  mothers  in  Israel — into  whose  houses 
he  had  carried  the  cup  of  consolation,  and  from 
whom  he  had  removed  the  chalice  of  bitterness. 
There  is  something  in  the  fervent  prayer  of  the 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  which  renders  it  of  pe- 
culiar acceptance  in  the  hour  of  affliction. 
However  inconsiderable  the  w  orth  which  we 
may  have  attached  to  his  office,  in  our  hour  of 
prosperity  ;  and  however  completely  we  may 
have  forgotten  its  sacred  import — in  proportion 
as  the  hand  of  God  seems  near  to  us,  we  at- 
tribute a  hallowedness  to  the  character.  We 
feel  that  it  is  he  who  stands  between  the  porch 
and  the  altar.  We  imagine  a  sacredness  in 
words  that  flow  from  his  lips,  which  belongs 
not  to  others.  And  even  the  careless  and  pro- 
fane, who  most  reluctantly  obey  the  precept — 
**  in  the  day  of  adversity  consider,"  cannot  es- 
cape the  impression  of  awe,  when  afllictiou  has 
made  an  inroad  in  the  domestic  circle,  and  the 
ordained  officer  of  the  church  stands  by  the 
breach,  addressing  the  Almighty. 

The  instructions  of  a  true   servant  of  God 
(jftGU  live,  like  his  example,  when  he  that  gave 


THE    COtJNTRY   PASTOR's    FUNERAL.  75 

them  is  no  more.  Tlicrc  will  be  scenes  and 
seasons  when  memory  is  prom})ted  to  recall 
them.  It  was  so  here.  The  words,  "  spiritual 
counsellor"  reminded  many  of  dark  days  gone 
by :  of  a  burden  that  once  pressed  on  the  spi- 
rits, and  of  the  consolatory  language  that  lifted 
that  burden,  and  gave  the  spirits  activity  and 
buoyancy  again.  The  voice,  the  words,  and 
the  tone,  were  audible  now.  ]5ut  they  were 
so  as  the  sounds  of  other  years.  And  their 
recollection  inspired  a  sense  of  present  me 
lancholy,  in  the  thought  that  they  should 
be  heard  no  more.  It  was  a  feeling  of  deser- 
tion.    And  each  of  the  concerned  felt  himself 

alone. 

"  To  many  of  you  he  was  a  spiritual  fa- 
ther."— — Here  was  an  address  to  sensibilities 
more  quick  than  any  other  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Christian.  It  created  a  transition,  rapid  as 
that  of  light,  to  the  ditferent  periods  of  indivi- 
dual history.  It  brought  back  the  time  of  im- 
penitence, when  the  fate  of  the  soul  was  sus- 
pended by  the  gossamer  thread  that  held  to- 
gether the  soul  and  the  body,  and  that  any  tri- 
fle might  have  snap'pcd  asunder — a  time  that 
shades  the  moment  of  familiar  review  in  its 
liistory  of  ingratitude  and  sin.  And  when 
such  a  survey  is  near, — brought  so  as  it  was,  in 
^he  present  instance — who  docs  not  realize  the 


76  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR's    FUNERAL. 

narrowness  of  escape — the  wonderful  interfe- 
rence of  Almighty  power — the  display  of  so- 
vereign, unmerited  love  I 

Christian  !  have  you  not  sometimes  indulged 
in  that  recall  of  the  past,  when  seme  incident 
of  life  forced  the  whole  back  upon  you,  and  it 
shifted  in  succession — and  exhibited  its  parts 
distinct  as  the  unblotted  deed  of  yesterday  I 
And  have  you  not  for  the  moment  half  doubted 
the  astonishing  change,  in  taste  and  desires, 
which  grace  has  effected  ^  And  when  reflec- 
tion convinced  you  of  its  reality,  and  gratitude 
and  wonder  no  longer  contended  for  the  mas- 
tery within  you, — have  you  not  loved  to  con- 
template the  steps  to  the  present  point  of  your 
career  !  And  did  you  not  remember  avcU  the 
occasion  that,  under  high  authority,  scathed 
the  hopes  of  self-delusion  and  folly  1  x\nd  did 
you  not  attach  a  dearness  to  him  who  breathed 
into  your  ear  the  language  of  Heaven — "  this 

is   the  way,  walk    ye  therein T' who  saw 

alike  your  apprehensions  and  your  danger — 
and  who  in  his  eagerness  for  your  good,  seem- 
ed to  make  your  interest  his  own  ^ It  was 

so  here,  with  many  a  heart  that  melted  down 
under  the  mention  of  "  spiritual  father.^'  Other 
sorrows  were  absorbed  in  this.  The  man  and 
the  friend  were  lost  in  a  hii^her  title. 


THE  COUNTRY  PASTOR  S  FUNERAL.     v7 

And  then  the  parochial  visit,  wliosc  recol- 
lections were  re\  ived  in  both  these  titles 1 

am  persuaded  that  when  tlie  best  labour  of  the 
pulpit  is  forgotten  in  the  lapse  of  years,  tlie 
afiectionate  intercourse  in  this  will  hold  its 
place  in  the  memory.  I  have  known  it  so 
when  the  ministrations  of  the  sanctuary  remain- 
ed a  confused  and  genej'al  warning,  and  when  the 
voice  of  expostulation  here,  seemed  to  conti- 
nue still.  From  that  singling  out,  and  that  pcrfo- 
nal  application,  which  grapple  and  flhig  the 
sophistries  of  a  worldly  mind,  there  is  no  easy 
escape.  The  heart  tiiat  may  appear  un^vound- 
ed,  will,  most  generally,  carry  its  arrow  still ; 
and  the  day  will  come  when  it  will  rankle  there  ; 
whether  to  be  healed  by  the  Physician  of  Gil- 
ead,  or  to  inflict  its  pains  in  final  despair. 

The  parochial  visit,  that  "  fastened  in  a  sure 
place"  the  truths  of  the  sacred  desk — the  con- 
viction of  guilt — the  dread  of  woe — the  scrip- 
tural counsel — the  full  presentation  of  a  dying- 
Saviour — the  dawn  of  hope — and  then  the 
doubts  and  fears  that  harass  the  infancy  of  s})i- 
rituality,  removed  by  the  same  instrument  that 
was  chosen  to  heal  as  well  as  to  wound — how 
inseparably  were  they  nil  associated  in  a  single 
name. 


7S  THE    COUNTRY   PASTORS   FUNERAL. 

And  such  an  interest  is  reciprocal  too.  It 
gives  a  force  to  exhortation,  which  is  well  un- 
tlerstood  by  both  adviser  and  receiver.  And 
the  Apostle  before  us  Imew  how  to  use  it  when 
he  said,  "  though  ye  have  ten  thousand  instruc- 
ters  in  Christ,  yet  have  ye  not  many  fathers  : 
for  in  Christ  Jesus  /have  begotten  you,  through 

the  Gospel.     Wherefore  I  beseech  you." 

I  am  confident  that  no  bond  of  affection  is 
more  lovely  than  this.  And  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  its  existence,  or  its  degree  may 
often  be  an  evidence  of  the  fervour  of  piety,  if 
not  of  its  sincerity.  In  proportion  as  we  real- 
ize our  deliverance  from  death,  and  enjoy  the 
new  life  of  the  soul,  it  is  hard  to  disconnect  our 
feelings  from  him,  whose  faithful  care  and  per- 
sonal solicitude,  were  owned  and  blessed  in  our 
behalf  This  tenderness  may  indeed  have  its 
dangers, — and  what  on  our  stricken  earth  is 
without  its  danger  I  what  may  not  our  yet  un- 
sanctified  passions  corrupt  ]  Into  what  dear  as- 
sociation has  not  the  spirit  of  idolatry  stolen  1 
How  often  are  the  very  graces  of  the  Christian 
perverted  ?  How  easily  will  his  zeal  degene- 
rate into  pride  !  Our  corrupted  nature  unres- 
trained, would  wither  all  that  it  touches  of 
Heavenly  origin. 


niE  COUNTRY  PASTOR  S  FUNERAL.      70 

There  were  a  few  that  stood  near  the  grave, 
whose  feelings  passed  beyond  this  mark.  Others 
could  merge  much  of  their  grief  in  the  hope  of 
a  future  re-uuion  ;  but  to  these,  the  sense  of  loss 
was  more  acute  and  severe.  A  few  weeks 
since,  they  had  been  gathered  in  a  little  harvest 
that  followed  a  refreshing  shower  in  this  gar- 
den of  the  Lord.  In  their  deprivation  they 
felt  their  weakness.     A  prop  on  which  they 

would  have  leaned,  had  snapped,  and  fallen 

Oh  there  is  something  of  almost  unmixed  love- 
liness— or  at  least  the  mixture  unseen — in  the 
early  effusions  of  a  soul  that  has  been  taught 
to  lisp  the  praise  of  God  by  lips  of  tenderness, 
and  has  been  led  on  by  a  mind  of  gentleness 
and  sympathy — the  elfusions  of  such  a  soul 
towards  his  spiritual  benefactor.  Pious  grati- 
tude tempers  that  love,  only  half  earthly  as  it 
is,  while  it  springs  warm  and  pure  and  fresh 
from  the  heart :  unadulterated  by  circumstan- 
ces, and  uncooled  by  time,  it  partakes  of  the 
very  attractions  which  belong  to  the  "  first-love" 
of  the  new-born  heir  of  grace  !  Here  was  a 
thrilling  chord  that  sent  back  the  name  of 
''  spiritual  father,"  in  a  strong  rush  of  emotion. 

"  He  shall  warn  you  no  more,"  said  the 
speaker,  as  he  shifted  his  position,  and  fastened 
a  keen  look  in  another  direction.     It  is  not 


'^0  THE   COUNTRY   PASTOR's   FUNERAL. 

easy  to  judge  wliat  effect  this  admonition  car- 
ried along  with  it.  But  there  were  some  whom 
it  reached,  that  stood,  as  it  were,  between  two 
worlds  :  whose  hearts  were  the  theatre  of  a 
conflict  between  life  and  death  :  who  knew  and 
felt  from  the  convictions  within  them,  that  a 
decision  was  entering  up  which  no  mortal  pow-^ 
er  could  alter,  and  no  divine  hand  was  likely 
to  change.     It  was  the  settling  decision  of  the 

soul's  last  doom. There  is  not  a  condition 

on  earth  wliich  involves  so  much  as  that  of  the 
man  who  is  conscious  of  the  striving  of  the 
spirit  of  God  in  his  bosom.  Others  may  read 
or  see  but  little  that  passes  within  him.  Yet  a 
work  goes  on  there,  which  engages  alike  the 
anxieties  of  Hell  and  the  feelings,  of  Heaven. 
And  all  that  occurs,  and  all  that  is  seen  or 
heard  around,  assists  that  array,  and  tends  to 
strengthen  one  of  the  embattled  forces  of  good 
or  evil.  There  is  nothing  neutral  in  its  effects, 
during  such  a  juncture.  Whatever  secures  or 
invites  the  attention,  acts  its  part  in  the  affray  ; 
and  looks  to  the  rejoicing  of  angels,  or  to  the 
enlargement  of  Tophet.  There  is  no  truth 
which  is  invested  with  greater  solemnity  than 
this  :  And  yet  perhaps  not  one  which  receives, 
so  unfrequentl}',  its  just  share  of  regard.  He 
to  whom  all  this  belongs  is  too  much  engrossed 
>)y  other  cares,  to  watch  the  particulars  which 


THE    COU>TRY    PASTOR's    FUNERAL.  81 

go  on  to  decide  the  stake  at  issue.  Yet  if  ever 
there  was  an  hour  that  might  liave  brought  this 
truth  to  the  siglit,  it  was  the  one  whose  last 
minutes  were  now  passing  away. 

And  there  were  some,  who,  as  they  looked  at 
the  opened  grave,  felt  tliat  they  could  give  much 
for  one  learning  more.  And  there  were  some 
over  Avhoni  there  came  a  painful  sense  of  the 
nearness  of  eternity :  For  even  the  elements 
claimed  a  right  to  teach  in  their  turn,  as  a 
shower  of  leaves  swept  through  the  assembly, 
and  a  cold  autumnal  cloud  chilled  and  dimmed 

the  scenery "  We  all  do  fade   as  a  leaf," 

was  the  construction  of  the  hieroglyphic  les- 
son  

A  brief,  but  impressive  prayer  closed  the  ex- 
ercises of  the  occasion.  "  The  clods  of  the 
valley"  were  drawn  to  the  chasm  their  remo- 
val had  left.  The  crowd  slowly  dispersed. 
And  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  the  place  of 
tombs  was  silent  and  solitary. 

There  comes  a  day  when  new  sounds, 

unlike  any  with  which  earth  is  familiar,  shall 
rend  the  air  of  that  spot  ;  and  the  agitated 
ground  shall  give  back  its  deposit ;  and  Pastor 
and  People  shall  meet  again.  And  the  secrets 
of  some  hearts  which  were  not  visible  this  hour, 
shall  be  legible  as  the  pencillings  of  light. 


82  THE    COUNTRY   PASTOR's    FUNERAL. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  careless  may  return  to 
his  folly.  The  pious  shall  grow  in  his  faith ; 
and  yet  neither  may  often  think,  and  neither 
shall  fairly  conceive,  of  the  swelled  record  that 
has  gone  up  from  the  scene  of  a  "  pastor's  fu- 
neral." 


Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal  king, 

Tlie  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays  ; 

Hope  springs  exulting  on  triumpiiant  wing, 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  : 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear ; 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

.  Come,  peace  of  mind,  delightful  guest ! 

Beturn,  and  make  thy  downy  nest 

Once  more  in  this  sad  heart : — 

Or  shall  I  see  thee  start  away, 

And  helpless,  hopeless  hear  thee  say, 

Farewell !  we  meet  no  more  ^ 

There  is  not  a  private  scene  on  earth 
more  delightful  than  that  of  the  assembling  of  a 
pious  family  around  the  domestic  altar ;  ming- 
ling the  incense  of  grateful  emotions  in  one 
current  that  ascends  to  the  throne  of  God.  It 
is  the  union  of  those  ^vllo  are  kindred  in  the 
flesh,  and  rendered  still  more  kindred  by  the 
blending  of  spirit.  Delightful  hour!  when 
hopes  go  up  in  company,  and  enter  "  within 
the  veil"  together.  How  often  have  I  loved  to 
contemplate  the  beginning  and  ending  of  a  day 
with  a  I'amilv  who  have  a  common  inheritance 


84  THE    DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

above  ;  to  see  those  who  were  to  take  on  them 
the  image  of  death,  and  to  pass,  with  death's 
unconsciousness,  the  watches  of  the  night,  com- 
mitting their  souls  to  Him  who  shed  Hght 
through  the  tomb ;  or  those  who  give  an  early 
hour  of  each  new  day  to  Him  who  shall  here- 
after bid  them  rise  to  the  brightness  of  eternal 
day.  And  are  not  Angels  intent  on  a  spectacle 
which  attracts  around  it  the  atmosphere  of 
Heaven,  and  gives  a  faint  shadowing  of  the 
exalted  family  above  !  There  is  a  taste  here 
that  fits  its  possessors  for  the  purer  enjoyment 
of  unmixed  spiriiuality.  There  is  a  feeling  of 
dependence  on  a  common  parent,  which  unites 
his  children  to  him,  while  it  retains  them  to- 
gether as  members  of  one  body.  There  is  no 
cement  so  strong  as  that  of  family  devotion. 
There  is  no  flame  that  consumes  so  eflectually 
the  little  jealousies  of  life,  or  that  purifies  so 
well  the  feelings  which  arise  from  a  daily  in- 
tercourse, as  that  of  the  family-altar.  Happy 
hour  !  too  little  appreciated  by  ihe  best  of  men, 
and  yet  presenting  some  of  the  brightest  spots 
"  in  memory's  waste."  Thousands  turn  with 
disgust  from  its  visions  of  faith,  and  yet  there 
lives  not  the  infidel  on  earth  who  might  not 
quail  when  he  compares  the  hopes  of  his  bo- 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  85 

aom  with  that  of  those  who  have  an  interest 
there. 

The  family  of  Morleys  had  just  risen  from 
the  posture  of  prayer.  Tiie  Bible  was  care- 
fully returned  to  its  place.  The  father  and 
mother  were  retiring  to  rest.  And  the  two 
sisters  had  resumed  their  seats  by  the  fire.  A 
spectator  who  could  have  read  the  hearts  of 
these  young  females  might  have  seen  a  struggle 
within  them  that  is  not  of  every  day's  occur- 
rence. It  was  plain  that  neither  of  them  was 
liappy.  And  yet  both  had  participated  with 
emotion  in  the  exercises  recently  closed.  It 
was  manifest,  too,  that  the  sUence  which  had 
been  sustained  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  was 
painful  to  a4  least  one  of  them. 

Clara  looked  wistfully  at  her  sister,  as  if 
doubtful  whether  she  might  obtrude  on  her  at- 
tention, or  whether  the  act  might  not  be  repug- 
nant to  a  heart  that  seemed  full  and  oppressed. 
She  ventured  to  speak "  What  a  wonder- 
ful change  is  this  in  our  family  1" 

"  Yes,  it  is  indeed." 

"  And  how  happy  it  is  to  feel  that  sympathy 
of  desires,  and  to  enjoy  that  union  of  interest 
which  belong  to  our  ofl'erings  of  morning  and 
evening  sacrifice !  Our  parents  were  always 
affectionate  ;  but  they  never  appeared  to  me  so 


86  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

clear  as  they  do  this  moment.  And  you,  too, 
Maria." — The  sister  sighed.  A  tear  glistened 
in  the  eye  of  the  afiectionate  girl,  as  it  met  the 
solicitous  gaze  of  Clara,  for  a  moment.  Slie 
was  reluctant  to  speak ;  or  unwilling  to  trust 
herself  in  what  she  considered  a  moment  of 
weakness.  And  another  long  interval  of  still- 
ness succeeded.  They  parted  for  the  night. 
Each  offered  her  fervent  petitions  to  the  throne 
of  grace  ;  for  each  had  an  interest  there  :  and 
yet  each  was  dispirited  and  restless.  Both  had 
sincerely  united  at  the  domestic  altar ;  and  yet 
neither  recollected  that  occasion  without  a  sigh. 
Nature  had  never  formed  ties  that  promised 
more  durability  or  strength  than  those  with 
which  she  had  connected  the  hearts  of  Maria 
and  Clara  Morley.  It  was  not  personal  pique.; 
it  was  not  wounded  pride,  nor  the  contempti- 
ble jealousy  of  disturbed  selfishness  that  had 
marred  the  peace  of  these  two  bosoms.  Each 
had  always  felt  that,  to  susceptible  affection, 

"  A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence." 

And  since  they  had  reached  maturity,  both 
were  governed,  in  their  conduct  towards  each 
other,  by  laws  more  effective  than  the  colder 
suggestions  of  mere  duty. 

The  family  which  I  am  about  to  present  to 
the  notice  of  tlie  reader,  consisted  of  the  per- 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  87 

sonages  whom  I  have  aheady  introduced,  and 
an  elder  brother  who  had  been  absent  for  a 
year  in  Europe,  and  whose  return  was  now 
eagerly  expected.  The  village  had  been  bless- 
ed with  a  pow  erful  and  extensive  revival,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Maria  had  arrived  after  a  visit 

of  six  months  to  the  city  of  B .     She  was, 

however,  no  stranger  to  the  work  which  had 
lately  been  WTOUght  in  her  parents  and  sister. 
The  aunt  in  w  hose  hospitalities  she  had  recent- 
ly shared,  attended  the  ministry  of  a  man  whose 
labours  had  been  owned  by  his  Divine  Master  ; 
and  who  might  certainly  have  considered  his 
success  with  Maria  Morley,  in  an  early  period 
of  her  visit,  as  one  of  the  rewards  of  his  faith- 
fulness. 

Miss  Nares, — for  so  I  shall  call  the  maiden 
aunt  just  mentioned, — was  a  woman  of  a  good 
natural  mind,  of  strong  feelings,  and  of  a  gen- 
erous temper.  Her  understanding  had  receiv- 
ed very  little  cultivation  from  books  ;  but  her 
memory  was  retentive  ;  and  she  had  carefully 
treasured  up  the  public  and  private  instructions 
of  her  Pastor.  Of  the  latter  she  received  a 
larger  share  than  any  other  member  of  the 
congregation.  Her  rank  in  life,  her  property, 
and  her  freedom  from  domestic  cares,  rend<3red 
her  an  invaluable  acquisition  to  one  who  was 


88  THE   DIVIDED   FA3in.Y. 

indefatigably  engaged  in  behalf  of  his  flock, 
A  week,  therefore,  seldom  passed  without  a  visit 
of  some  hours  from  Mr.  Wythe.  And  during 
such  times  she  was  the  depository  of  parochial 
secrets,  the  co-adjutor  in  counsel,  and  the  wil- 
ling assistant  in  schemes  of  benevolence. 

How  far  she  was  flattered  by  such  compli- 
mentary partialities,  as  women  under  such  cir- 
cumstances are  said  to  be,  I  have  never  learnt. 
Although  I  am  aware  that  it  was  shrewdly  sus- 
pected by  many  that  the  influence  of  these  at- 
tentions was  not  lost  on  the  mind  of  their  ob- 
ject. But  then  the  world  judges  harshly.  And 
it  is  not  unapt  to  impute  dispositions  and  tem- 
pers, which  arise  from  unsanctified  disappoint- 
ments, to  that  class  of  people  who,  for  some 
two  centuries  past,  have  received  the   sarcastic 

appellation  of  "  religious  old  Maids  :" and 

Miss  Nares  had  passed  over  the  dreaded  line  of 

single     thirty. Congregational    difficulties, 

and  parish  slanders,  are  commonly  set  down  in 
the  gross,  to  the  credit  of  those  who  are  said 
to  possess  a  prescriptive  right  to  a  certain  kind 
of  activity  in  the  Church.  And  I  have  heard 
even  a  worthy  minister  say,  that  he  "  never 
knew  the  array  of  two  parties  in  a  divided  con- 
gregation, in  which  the  principle  agents  werf 
not  of  this  class.'' 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  89 

There  is  always  sometliing  either  rash  or  il- 
liberal in  sweeping  imputations.  In  the  pre- 
sent instance  1  am  sure  of  the  latter.  And 
those  who  attempt  to  account  for  the  supposed 
truth  of  so  broad  a  position  by  examining  the 
eifects  of  a  solitary  life,  defeated  hopes,  or  of 
a  potty  ambition  in  a  field  to  which  the  whole 
cneriries  are  transierrcd,  arc  guilty  of  an  act 
of  injustice  in  assuming  a  disputed  position. 
Miss  Narcs  was  so  far  free  from  weaknesses 
sometimes  attributed  to  her,  that  she  really  felt 
no  desire  to  be  more  conspicuous  than  the  na- 
ture of  her  chosen  pursuits  rendered  indispen- 
sably necessary.  She  never  spoke  of  herself: 
and  appeared  to  consider  her  w  hole  agency  in 
acts  of  benevolence  as  simply  instrumental  in 
the  hands  of  a  higher  power.  If  assiduous 
attentions  had  ever  flattered  her  vanity — as 
they  have  done  in  so  many  instances  before 
her — she  certainly  was  not  sensible  of  it ;  and 
they  did  not  detract  one  jot  from  the  ordinary 
softness  of  her  maimers  and  deportment.  Her 
suavity  was  rarely  disturbed.  And  her  brow 
had  acquired  a  placidness  which  neither  con- 
tradiction, nor  personal  mortification,  was  like- 
ly to  discompose. 

There  was  one  feature  in  the  mind  of  this 
ladv,  which  deserves  particular  notice  :  it  was 


90  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

a  susceptibility  and  retentiveness  of  impres- 
sion ;  tAvo  qualities  which  are  seldom  united  in 
the  same  individual,  and,  perhaps,  are  never  so 
by  nature.  Nor  would  they  have  been  so  here, 
had  not  principles  which  were  once  admitted, 
been  set  down  as  incontrovertible,  and  all  which 
threatened  to  produce  a  contradictory  impres- 
sion, been  rejected  as  untenable.  In  the  early 
part  of  her  life  she  had  imbibed  no  decided  no- 
tions of  religion.  Except  by  name,  she  knew 
little  or  nothing  of  the  various  creeds,  or  the 
difierent  sects  of  Christianity.  And  when  her 
heart  was  touched  by  divine  power,  it  was  un- 
der the  ministration  of  the  Pastor  with  whom 
she  was  now  on  so  intimate  a  footing,  and  who 
belonged  to  a  denomination  different  from  that 
of  her  parents  before  her,  or  that  of  the  Mor- 
ley  family.  With  the  utmost  consciencious- 
ness  she  united  herself  with  a  peo|)le  among 
whom  she  had  received  her  first  serious  im- 
pressions, on  an  occasional  visit  to  their  Church  ; 
and  in  whose  society  she  had  found  relief  from 
painful  conviction. 

All  this  was  natural  enough.  But  Miss 
Nares  did  not  stop  here.  To  her  it  was  con- 
clusive that  a  ministry  which  had  been  blessed 
to  her  was  not  only  the  one  to  which  she  was 
providentially  directed,  but  obviously  the  one 


THE    DIVIUKO    FAMILY.  91 

wliiclj  was  nearest  to  the  trutli.  This  idea 
once  settled,  all  that  could  oj)posc  it  \vas  dis- 
carded at  sight  ;  and  all  that  coidd  confirm  it 
was  sought  for  with  avidity,  lltii-  preposses- 
sions had  been  won,  and  her  judgement  was 
called  to  establish  theni,  as  the  principal  task 
assigned  to  it.  Bcsidiv'^,  lik(^  many  others,  she 
had  an  avowed  dislike  ot*  unsettledness  of  mind. 
It  was  uidiappy.  It  was  an  impediment  to 
growth  in  grace.  And  the  earlier  her  religious 
opinions  were  decided,  the  greater  would  be 
her  security  from  falling.  Whether,  or  how 
far,  she  was  right  in  all  this,  is  not  the  province 
of  a  mere  chronicle  to  judge. But  my  pro- 
mised feature  is  not  finished.  Another  touch 
will  complete  it  : 

There  is  a  kind  of  fiiscination  in  certain 
words,  when  they  reach  certain  people,  which 
is  perfectly  irresistible.  In  a  greater  or  less 
<legree,  this  may  be  observable  in  every  deno- 
mination of  Christians.  It  is  hardly  worth 
while  to  exemplify.  But  he  is  a  careless  ob- 
server who  has  not  seen  with  what  adroitness 
the  zealous  partisan  of  any  creed  knows  how 
to  w  ield  the  argumcntinn  ad  popnlum ;  or  who 
has  not  marked  the  pow  erful  efiect  of  a  plausible 
phraseology,  in  a  jiojiular  assend)ly.  Put  into 
the  nioutii  of  a  man  of  good  intellect,  who  has 


92  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

a  homogeneous  audience — if  tlie  case  may  be 
supposed — such  a  collocation  of  phrases  as  may 
meet  their  prejudices  and  feelings,  and  he  will 
stand  in  very  little  need  of  assistance  from  ar- 
gument to  produce  confirmation  of  the  justice 
of  his  cause 

"  Strong^  as  proofs  from  Holy  Writ." 

The  expression  which  estal)lished  the  creed 
of  Miss  Nares  was, — '' foUoiring  the  Lord  ful- 
ly." It  was  a  talisman  before  which  every 
doubt  of  the  propriety  of  her  choice  always 
vanished.  She  saw  indubitable  evidences  that 
her  Saviour  had  descended  into  the  water,  at 
his  baptism.  To  "  follow  the  Lord  fully"  was 
uiseparable  from  strict  ijnitation  of  this  exam- 
ple. Other  denominations  mi<»ht  be  right  in 
most  things.  But  the  great  defect  here  was  a 
line  of  demarkation.  She  had  charity  for  their 
failings,  mourned  sincerely  over  the  pride  which 
kept  them  back  from  this  grand  essential  of  im- 
itation, and  was  always  astonished  at  that  ob- 
liquity of  mind,  which  prevented  their  discover- 
ing the  truth.  She  agreed  with  her  Pastor, 
that,  as  this  difference  of  opinion,  considering 
the  clear  light  of  the  Bible,  was  rather  a  fault 
than  a  misfortune,  to  sit  at  the  Lord's  table 
with  those  who  pertinaciously  maintained  thip- 


TIIK    DIVIDED    I'AMILY,  f>3 

(liflbrence,  was   not  only  in  opposition  to  the 
divine  will,  but  an  encouragement  to  error. 

Under  the  roof  ol'  this  lady,  the  mind  of  i>Ia- 
ria  Morley  had  received  a  new  complexion. 
Impressed  with  a  sense  of  relii^ion,  soon  after 
her  arrival  there,  nmch  of  the  instruction  which 
she  received,  directed  her  attention  to  the  ex- 
clusive rectitude  of  a  particular  sectarian  faith. 
Never  was  scholar  more  apt :  and  never  the 
example  and  precepts  of  a  teacher  more  suc- 
cessful. 31aria  had  nothing  to  unlearn  :  for  she 
had  never  reflected  on  the  subject ;  or,  at  least, 
had  never  examined  it.  She  had  no  difliculties 
to  embarrass  her  :  for  all  arguments  which  were 
intro'Uiced  into  a  feigned  debate,  got  up  to  try 
the  atrength  of  the  two  sides,  were  always  fair 
ly  beaten  ofl"  the  ground  ;  and  Maria  was  left 
in  surprise  at  the  weakness  of  those  who  could 
profess  to  defend  them. — There  is  nothing  easier 
than  to  concpier  the;  troops  of  an  enemy  at  the 
fireside  ;  or  to  rout  them  in  a  fictitious  engage- 
ment, when  we  have  chosen  their  weapons  for 
them.  And  if,  after  this,  we  are  ever  foiled  in 
a  real  attack,  it  is  not  for  want  of  an  acquired 
confidence  in  ourselves. 

On  the  expiration  of  her  first  lour  months  in 
the  city,  Maria  had  obtained  a  reluctant  per- 
mission from  her  father,  to  unite  herself  with 


94 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 


the  Church  to  which  her  aunt  was  attached. 
Some  weeks  ai'terwarcls,  a  vague  report  reach- 
ed  her,  of  a  revival  in  her  native  vilhige.  And 
that  intelhgcnce  was  confirmed  by  letters  from 
both  her  parents  and  sister,  communicating  the 
happy  tidings  of  a  spiritual  change  in  the  fam- 
ily. The  lines  from  her  father,  which  at  the 
same  time  recalled  her  home,  gave  an  affecting 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  her  parents 
Imd.been  led  from  worldliness  to  arrace.  But 
there  was  something  peculiarly  touching  in  every 
expression  from  the  pen  of  Clara.  A  cool 
reader  might  have  called  it  enthusiastic  ;  but  it 
was  an  enthusiasm  for  which  good  nature  v,  ould 
have  adjudged  no  heavy  penalty. 

Is  there  not  something  in  the  ardour  of  the 
youthful  convert,  which,  with  all  its  errors,  and 
its  dreams  of  fancy,  wins  our  admiration  when- 
ever it  attracts  our  notice  I  Is  there  not  a  charm 
in  that  enthusiasm  which  glows  with  the  first 
love  of  a  Saviour  l  which  lights  up  the  counte- 
nance by  a  flame  that  burns  within  the  heart 
and  flings  a  sacred  cheerfulness  around  the  path 
of  the  young  Christian  I  There  is  indeed. 
And  though  we  may  smile  at  what  appears  to 
participate  in  romance — and  though  we  may 
mourn  over  our  sober  predictions  of  the  pains 
and  sorrows)  which  the  future  will   bring, — no 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  95 

Christian  can  contemplate  the  young  and  ar- 
dent infant  in  Christ,  m  ithont  some  feeling  of 
approving  pleasure. 

There  was  a  passage  in  Clara's  letter  which 
deserves  a  moment's  notice — "  We  shall  now 
be  more  united  as  a  family  than  ever.  And 
for  ourselves,  my  dear  sister,  we  hold  our  rela- 
tionship to  each  other  more  closely  tlian  in 
years  that  are  past.  I  long  to  embrace  you. 
I  long  to  interchange  sympathies  which  are  new 
to  us  both.  I  see  something  lovely  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  every  Christian.  How  nuich  more 
will  it  be  so  in  my  Maria" 

31aria  read  the  sheet  over  and  over,  with  a 
perfect  reciprocity  of  feeling.  She,  too,  longed 
for  the  affectionate  embrace  of  meeting.  Her 
bosom  glowed  with  desire.  Fancy  transferred 
hei-  to  a  circle  more  beloved  than  ever  now. 
8he  thought  of  the  hymn  in  which  she  had 
joined  at  the  close  of  the  communion-service : 

Our  souls  by  love  together  knit. 
Cemented,  mixt  in  one, 
One  hope,  one  heart,  one  mind,  one  voice, 
Tis  heaven  on  earth  begun. 
And  when  thou  makcst  thy  jcu-cLs  up. 
And  sct'st  thy  starry  crown  ; 
When  all  thy  sparkling  gems  shall  shine . 
Proclaim'd  by  thee  thine  own  ; 
May  wc,  a  little  band  of  lov<  . 
Be  sinners  changed  by  grace. 
From  glory  unto  glory  raised 
BehoW  thcc,  face  t«  face  ' 


96  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

But  she  thought  not  now  of  that  occasion.. 
The  words  of  Christian  union  echoed  in  her 
ears  from  the  paternal  fire-side.  The  sweet 
voice  of  her  sister  thrilled  every  nerve  :  a  voice 
to  which  she  had  often  listened  in  other  lays, 
but  now  given,  with   all  its  attendant  science, 

to  Him  whom  Angels  sing. Oh,  let  judge- 

mciit  condemn  the  disportings  of  imagination 
as  it  may  :  still,  her's  is  a  region  peopled  with 
all  whom  we  love,  and  decked  with  all  that  is 
fair.  Where  a  spiritual  taste  governs  her  cre- 
ative power,  and  the  creatures  and  scenes  of 
her  foniiing  are  those  with  which  blessed  spirits 
w  oidd  deem  it  no  stooping  to  share,  is  there 
an  hour  nearer  to  the  bliss  of  Heaven,  that 
that  in  which  a  sanctified  and  elevated  fancy 
reigns  1  If  tlie  curse  has  marred  a  faculty  that 
once  shed  a  pure  light  through  the  heart  and 
the  mind,  and  if  depravity  has  prostituted  a 
noble  gift  of  our  Maker,  to  ends  that  are  sel- 
fish and  sensual,  are  there  not  moments,  with 
some,  when  grace  gives  to  it  energies  that  are 
as  hallowed  as  they  are  lofty  1  In  absence  from 
those  whom  we  love  with  spiritual  affection, 
may  we  not  borrow  the  fleet  wings  of  a  power 
that  counts  not  the  leagues  of  separation  ?  Or 
when  we  stand  by  the  tomb  «f  one  whoirt  ^^c 
knew  in  communications  befitting  our  highest 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  07 

hopes,  who  shall  forbid  that  we  rise  on  these 
wings  ?  And  who  has  not  reasoned  with  him- 
self in  such  an  hour 

"Pfottotlic  grave,  not  to  the  grave,  my  soul, 

Follow  thy  friend  belov'd 

The  spirit  is  not  tiierc  .' 
Often  together  have  we  talked  of  death 

How  sweet  it  were  to  see 

All  doubtful  things  made  clear; 

How  sweet  it  were  with  powers 

Such  as  the  Cherubim, 

To  view  the  depths  of  Heaven  / 

0  ! thou  hast  first 

»       Begun  the  travel  of  eternity 

1  gaze  amid  the  stars 

And  think  that  thou  art  there. 
Unfettered  as  the  thought  that  follows  thee— — 
And  we  have  often  said  how  sweet  it  were, 
^Vith  unseen  ministry  of  Angel  power 

To  watch  the  friends  we  luved 

We  did  not  err ; 

Sure  I  have  felt  thy  presence ;  thou  hast  given 
A  birth  to  holy  thought ; 

Hast  kept  mc  from  the  world 

We  did  not  err ; 
Our  best  affections  here. 

They  are  not  like  tlie  toys  of  infancy 

The  soul  outgrows  them  not, 
Wc  do  not  cast  them  off." 

Or  was  ever  spur  more  effective  given  to  the 
imagination  of  one  waiting  for  the  revelation 
of  glory,  than  that  of  the  Apostle's  expres- 
sion  "  Eye  hath  not  seen,   nor  ear  heard, 

neither  have  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  the 
things  which  God  hath  prepared  for  theni  that 

13 


98  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

love  him  !"  Or  than  some  of  those  unfinislicd 
liiiits,  which  other  inspired  penmen  have  left, 
touching  the  grandeur  of  our  future  home  l 
Maria  was  awakened  from  her  reverie  by  the 
entrance  of  her  Aunt.  The  good  lady  read  the 
letters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morley,  with  an  interest 
nearly  as  strong  as  that  of  her  neice.  They 
were  tears  of  gratitude  and  joy  which  were 
mingled  together.  One  thought,  and  one  only, 
came  up  as  a  cloud  before  the  jnind  of  Miss 
JVarcs.  But  that  thought  was  untold  ;  and  that 
cloud  extended  no  further.  Clara's  letter  was 
taken  up  next.  A  sliade  thickened  on  the 
brow  of  the  reader.  And  although  an  expres- 
sion of  pleasure  followed,  it  was  qualified  al- 
most to  coldness.  Her  young  relative  saw  this. 
She  did  not  understand  it ;  and  its  chilling 
power  penetrated  the  more  deeply.  She  could 
have  wept  afresh  :  but  it  would  have  been  in 
mortification.  Her  ardour  was  not  met ;  and 
to  her  susceptible  mind  this  was  as  painful  as 
a  repulse.  Could  her  Aimt  have  doubted  the 
.sincerity  of  her  sister  I  or  could  the  enthusiasm 
which  warmed  her  pages,  have  come  into  col- 
lision with  feelings  less  sanguine,  and  more  re- 
gular 1     Neither  was  possible.     There  was  no 

clue  to  the  mystery. Perhaps  another  hour 

would  solve  it And  Maria's  fancv  besjan  to 


Tirr  DivinEi)  fvmit.y.  99 

resiiino  its  liap[)y  ai'tivity  ni.!,;iiii.  Another  hoiii* 
did  solve  it. 

Tlie  roiniiiiK'icr  of  the  day  passed,  as  days 
coiiiiiiojdy  pass  in  laniilies  of  the  pious.  If 
tliere  was  notlnnj^-  particularly  iustructivo  iu 
till'  conversation  at 'meals,  there  v.  as  nothing 
to  encoura<!;e  a  painful  thought.  And  with  all 
that  elasticity  common  to  her  years,  3Iaria  was 
happy.  The  single  reflection  that  her  own  con- 
templated dep-arture  might  have  occasioned  the 
'*  morning  cloud,"  which  had  now  passed  away, 
rather  increased  than  diminished  her  peace. 
I5ut  at  night,  when  the  duties  of  the  family 
Avere  over.  Miss  Nares,  in  conformity  with  her 
usual  custom,  continued  in  the  parlour.  She 
drew  her  chair  near  to  Maria:  aflcctionately 
took  her  hand  ;  and  with  a  look  mdicativc  of 
some  emotion,  addressed  her  : 

"  You  are  now^  soon  to  leave  me,  Maria.  I 
would  not  repress  the  truth  that  you  have  been 
more  endeared  to  me  every  week  of  your  resi- 
dence with  me.  And  I  would  not  deny  that 
the  change  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  eflect 
in  your  heart,  has  strengthened  my  attachment. 
I  cannot  doubt  that  a  divine  superintendance 
will  watch  over  you.  And  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  I  ought  not  to  conceal  my  apiirehensions 
diat  severe  trials  may  stagger  your  faith.— ^^ 


10^  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

Tell  me,  Maria,  was  not  this  tlje  place  of  your 
spiritual  nativity "?" 

"  Oh  how  can  I  forget  it  ?"  exclaimed  the 
agitated  girl. 

"  I  trust  you  will  not.  But  the  kingdom  of 
of  Christ,  you  know,  is  divided  by  those  who 
should  be  engaged  in  establishing  it.  Many 
for  whom  I  have  a  sincere  hope,  are  imperfect 
Christians.  They  are  unwilling  to  take  up  the 
whole  cross  of  the  Saviour.  They  break  it 
to  render  it  lighter,  or  to  take  away  the  form  of 
ignominy  which  belongs  to  it.  If  it  were  not  so, 
the  Christian  world  would  not  be  split  into 
sects.  We  should  all  be  one.  We  should  be 
willing  to  'follow  the  Lord  fully.'  But  the 
most  melancholy  part  of  the  truth  is  yet  to 
come.  Our  Redeemer  predicted  that  his  king- 
dom should  be  accompanied  with  a  sword : 
That  variance  should  enter  into  families  ;  and 
parent  and  child,  and  sister  and  brother  should 
be  sundered  from  each  other." 

"  True,"  my  dear  Aunt, — said  Maria,  at  a 
Joss  to  conceive  what  was  to  follow — "  true-^- 
but  I  have  understood  that  passage  as  relating 
to  the  opposition  of  the  natural  heart  to  reli- 
gion. I  know  that  such  things  did  take  place. 
And  I  fear  they  may  sometimes  do  so  now. 
But  I  ajr^  grateful  that  I  shall  be  exposed  to 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  101 

juo  trials  iVoni  that  quarter.  Ours  is  now  a 
household  of  iaith.  My  brother  Thurston 
alone — — 

"  No,  my  love,  you  mistake  my  meaning. 
I  have  said  that  the  kingdom  of  Christ  itself 
is  divided.  And  1  have  said  that  most  of 
its  members  are  unwilling  to  *  follow  the  Lord 
fully.'  Our  greatest  trials  are  when  we  come 
into  necessary  and  daily  contact  with  ikcm. 
The  Saviour  must  have  referred,  in  a  great  de- 
gree to  this,  in  his  prophecy  :  especially  when 
he  foresaw  that  those  who  did  follow  him, 
would  separate  from  those  who  did  not.  They 
might  admit  such  to  be  Christians.  But  they 
must  believe  them  to  be  in  a  melancholy  error. 
An  error  which,  while  it  lasts,  must  prevent  as 
close  a  union  as  is  desirable  between  the  chil- 
dren of  God.  The  Apostle  has  directed  us  to 
seek  first  purity,  and  ihen  peace.  You  now  re- 
turn to  your  father's  house.  But  unhappily 
thert  is  reason  to  believe  that  none  of  his  fam- 
ily will  '  follow  the  Lord  iully.' — The  minister 
of  the  Village,  although  an  excellent  man,  has 
not  himself  completely  imitated  the  Saviour's 
Jiumble  example.  It  is  here  we  have  reason  to 
mourn.  You  can  neither  approach  the  Lord's 
($ible  with  them  tJierr,  nor  they  with  you  here." 


102  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

A  truth  flashed  luridly  over  the  iniiid  of  Ma- 
ria, at  the  conclusion  of  this  sentence.  It  co- 
vered the  dear  objects  on  which  her  thoughts 
had  dwelt  that  day.  It  i^ave  a  sickly  hue  to 
the  bright  scenes  in  which  her  imagination  had 
played.  It  altered  for  a  moment,  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  future.  She  felt  a  sinking  sensa- 
tion, as  if  the  place  that  she  occupied  were 
giving  way  beneath  her. 

She  had,  iiitlierto,  admitted  with  readiness  that 
they  who  were  unwilling  to  tread  in  the  steps 
of  the  Redeemer,  in  tlie  distinguishing  parti- 
cnUir  of  her  adopted  creed,  ought  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  a  seat  by  the  memorials  of  dying- 
love,  with  those  who  are  thus  faithful  through- 
out. But  there  are  principles  which  appear 
very  different  when  we  examine  their  agencies 
in  our  o^vii  concerns,  from  the  ibrm  they  as- 
sumed, when  we  considered  them  in  relation 
to  others.  And  there  arc  principles  Avhich  we 
cannot  examine  with  impartiality,  until  we  have 
seen  their  effects  in  both  these  relations.  3Ia- 
ria  now  understood  this.  It  had  not  occurred 
to  her  that  the  implied  engagement  into  ^^  Inch 
she  had  entered,  was  to  etlect  an  important 
change  in  her  temporal  destiny.  She  had  seen 
nothing  very  forbidding  in  formkg  a  line  of 
demarkation  whiol)  she  was  not  to  pass.     It 


THE    DIVlbED    FAMILY.  103 

Vf(i»  01  little  or  no  import,  that  others  who  were 
in  her  circle  of  lite,  were  not  to  join  her  in  the 
highest  emblem  of  Christian  love.  The  fault 
was  t/tcirs ;  and  all  she  could  do  w  as  to  lament 
it.  ]?nt  when  she  saw  the  reaction  of  her 
principles  upon  herself,  and  their  application 
to  her  dearest  connections,  the  face  of  matters 
was  altered — dismally  altered.  She  felt  as  if 
an  impassable  gulf  were  now  between  her 
relations  and  herself.  She  could  not  go  to 
them  ;  they  conld  not  come  to  her.  The  hope 
of  a  future  re-union  where  nil  tlic  family  of 
Christ  shall  sit  down  at  "  the  3Jarriage  Supper 
of  the  Lamb,"  was  cold  and  ciieerless  to  one 
whose  affections  called  for  an  intercommunion 
now  ;  and  that  hope  was  dim  in  its  distance  to 
the  sight  of  one  wlio  was  thinking  only  of  the 
present. 

Miss  jN'ares  was  not  entirely  ignorant  of  whaf; 
was  passing  in  the  mind  of  her  ncice.  Nor 
Avas  she  without  some  apprehensions  that  a 
frame  which  had  long  been  feeble,  and  which 
was  threatened  with  a  fatal  debility,  might  suf- 
fer severely  from  the  shock  which  awaited  it. 
And  there  were  times  when  she  was  half  dis- 
])osed  to  relent  in  her  purpose  ;  and  to  permit 
Mariii  to  return  to  hor  parents  without  injunc- 
tion or  advice  on  tlu*  subject  which  excited  her 


104  THE   DIVIDED  TAiMILY. 

own  fears.  And  there  were  times  when  she 
ahnost  wished  that  the  restrictive  system,  by 
which  her  creed  was  distinguished,  did  not  be- 
long to  it.  Yet  an  imperious  sense  of  duty 
conquered  these  scruples  of  her  heart :  and 
her  convictions  became  stronger  than  ever,  that 
our  obligations  were  not  to  be  weakened  by 
any  of  the  evils  to  which  they  might  expose  us  : 
but  that,  on  the  contrary,  these  evils  were  de- 
signed to  be  a  test  of  our  obedience  and  faith. 
And  then  she,  too,  was  to  make  a  part  of  the 
sacrifice  ;  for,  to  her  it  would  be  distressing  in 
the  highest  decree,  to  see  one  whom  she  really 
loved,  enduring  a  painful  conflict  of  mind. 
The  idea  of  this  participation  occurred  as  a 
trial  to  herself;  in  evidence,  not  only  of  her 
disinterestedness,  but  of  the  urgent  nature  of 
her  duty.  With  these  impressions,  then,  she 
was  prepared  for  the  struggle  which  she  now 
saw  before  her.  And  her  own  uneasiness  be- 
came an  argument  to  enforce  a  rigid  adherence 
to  her  purpose. 

With  an  energy,  therefore,  which  was  sup- 
posed to  befit  well,  the  importance  of  her  de- 
sign. Miss  Nares  continued  her  instructions  un- 
til a  late  hour.  And  the  parties  separated  ; 
the  one  convinced  against  all  the  hiclinations 
of  her  heart ;  and  the  other  still  apprehensive 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  105 

that  her  success  was  less  complete  than  she  de- 
sired. 

The  following  day  was  the  last  of  Maria's 
sojourn  in  the  city  of  B.  It  was  therefore 
principally  engrossed  in  preparations  for  her 
departure.  In  these,  her  Aunt  assisted  her. 
And  she  left  no  interval  unimproved.  She  lost 
no  opportunity  of  confirming  the  admonitions 
of  the  past  night,  or  of  presenting  her  argu- 
ments in  a  dilferent  form,  or  of  intimating  her 
fears  of  a  possible  backsliding  from  the  true 
faith.  In  all  this  she  meant  nothing  unkind  : 
Yet  it  was  harassing  to  her  hearer  ;  who  felt 
that  part  of  it  implied  a  suspicion  of  her  firm- 
ness, if  not  of  her  integrity.  It  was  unneces- 
sary, too.  But  Miss  Nares  understood  but  lit- 
tle of  the  texture  of  Maria's  mind.  She  had 
never  seen  her  tried.  She  only  knew  her  as 
one  of  an  ardent  temperament,  a  good  natural 
understanding,  and  a  most  aftectionate  dispo- 
sition. Her  greatest  apprehensions  were  from 
the  last  trait  of  her  character.  And  she  could 
remember  some  instances  of  apostacy  from  her 
own  sect,  arising  from  the  natural  infirmity  of 
an  inordinate  attachment  to  relatives :  instances, 
too,  she  regretted  to  think,  in  which  the  delu- 
sion was  judicially  permitted  to  continue,  even 

14 


106  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

with  tranquility  in  a  death-honr  ;  and  the  croTvil 
of  reward  in  another  world,  shorn  of  its  lustre. 

But,  as  I  hare  already  intimated,  she  had 
mistaken  her  niece.  The  latter  had  been  too 
well  tutored  not  to  be  a  proficient  in  her  les- 
sons. Disease,  which  had  given  an  almost  un- 
natural brilliancy  to  her  swimming  eye,  seemed 
to  have  removed  all  that  was  gross  from  her 
understanding — all  that  could  impede  its  most 
powerful  exercise  ;  and  while  it  sometimes  im- 
parted a  pensiveness  to  her  manner,  rather  in- 
creased than  diminished  her  decision  of  cha- 
racter. The  spirit  of  martyrdom  never  existed 
more  fully  than  it  did  in  her.  She  could  have 
"bound  the  fillets  of  death,  with  an  untrembling 
hand  around  her  own  head  ;  and  she  could  have 
led  the  way,  with  measured  step  to  the  scaffold 
or  the  pyre. 

A  party  of  two  or  three  female  friends,  with 
the  Pastor  of  the  Church,  assembled  at  the 
the  house  of  Miss  Nares,  in  the  evening.  Ma- 
ria thought  it  inopportune,  for  she  was  ignorant 
that  it  was  part  of  a  kind  design  for  her  spiri- 
tual good.  The  conversation  turned  on  the 
subject  of  her  departure.  All  expressed  a  se- 
rious regret  for  the  necessity  of  the  measure. 
And  not  one  omitted  the  suggestion  of  a  hope 
tfeaj.  she  would  continue  true  to  her  profession. 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  l07 

after  the  example  of  Ilim  nlioiii  she  had  thi\s 
far  followed,  and  "  who  before  Pontius  Pilate 
witnessed  a  good  profession,"  and  continued  it 
unto  the  end.  She  was  reminded,  again  and 
again  of  the  dangers  which  were  about  to  en- 
compass her.  She  was  advised  to  make  it  the 
burden  of  her  prayer  that  her  views  and  prac- 
tice might  continue  unchanged,  and  always  to 
remember  that  though  she  might  feel  confident 
as  young  3Ielaiicthon  against  the  force  of  the 
adversary,  she  might,  like  young  Melancthon, 
iiiid  his  wiles  too  insidious  for  her  simplicity. 

In  all  these  well-meant  suggestions,  Maria 
observed  that  there  w  as  no  counsel  relating  to 
spiritual  experience,  or  to  the  cultivation  of 
Christian  graces.  But  then  she  distinctly  un- 
derstood that  these  were  implied  in  the  admo- 
nitions of  "  holding  fast  her  profession  :"  And 
that  "  the  first  step  to  a  progressive  decline 
would  be  seen  in  a  practical  relinquishment  of 
her  present  belief;  for  heterodoxy  may  encroach 
on  our  spiritual  welfare  more  insidiously  than 
vice  itself." 

Another  thing,  quite  as  worthy  of  notice,  in 
this  parting  interview,  had  not  escaped  the  ob- 
servation of  Maria :  it  was  the  comparative  in- 
diftcrence,  or  rather  the  comparatively  little 
interest,  which  the  ^vortlly  Pastor  took  in  the 


108  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

conversation.  His  manner  indeed  was  as  kind 
as  ever,  but  he  displayed  no  pains  to  second 
the  kind  admonitions  of  her  friends.  And  ex- 
cepting where  the  frequent  interrogative  reacli- 

e^j  liini "  don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Wythe  V 

he  was  apparently  little  disposed  to  join  in  the 
colloquy.  But  perhaps  the  assiduity  which  he 
had  used  to  confirm  her  principles,  on  her  first 
admission  to  the  Church,  and  for  some  weeks 
afterwards,  w  as  considered  sufliicient.  Or,  pos- 
sibly, he  did  not  think  an  auxiliary  necessary 
where  there  was  already  a  "  multitude  of  coun- 
sel." Or,  it  might  be  that  he  saw  a  depress- 
sion  of  spirit  through  the  mild  countenance  be- 
fore him,  and  his  generosity  forbade  his  increas- 
ing it.  So  thought  Maria  ;  and  in  either  con- 
clusion she  was  disposed  to  be  grateful.  For 
once,  however,  she  was  Avrong. 

Mr.  Wythe  was  the  spiritual  shepherd  of  a 
numerous  flock,  to  whom  his  attentions  were 
unremitting.  No  man  ever  taught  luore  faith- 
fully the  tenets  of  his  own  belief,  or  more  firm- 
ly established  the  people  of  his  charge  in  the 
doctrines  he  inculcated.  Scarcely  a  Sabbath 
passed  in  which  he  did  not  either  illustrate  his 
distinguishing  principles,  or  plainly,  or  indirect- 
ly congratulate  his  congregation  on  the  primi- 
tive purity  of  their  views.     Whether  he  consi- 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMII-Y.  IP9 

dcrcd  the  principle  of  close  communion  of  vital 
importance  lie  did  not  say.  But  certain  it  is, 
that  often  as  he  found  it  necessary  to  shew 
the  expediency,  and  even  the  necessity,  of  such 
a  separation  from  other  denominations,  he  rare- 
ly canvassed  objections  to  it,  and  when  he  did 
■SO,  he  trod  the  ground  with  exemplary  caution  : 
and  never  wasted  the  patience  of  his  auditory 
by  detaining  them  long  in  traversing  it.  Such 
would  have  been  the  observation  of  an  atten- 
dant on  Mr.  Wythe's  ministrations.  But  such 
was  only  the  exterior  of  the  truth. 

Living  in  a  city  in  which  many  churches 
were  flourishing  around  him  ;  and  where  a  spirit 
of  rivalship,  not  to  say  of  jealousy,  had  crept 
into  the  emblematic  body  of  Christ,  this  ex- 
cellent man  was  not  insensible  to  its  influence. 
The  necessity  of  self-defence,  against  the  en- 
croachment of  opposite  views,  the  loss  of  some 
of  his  own  converts  in  certain  instances,  and, 
not  least  of  all,  the  habit  of  reflecting  on  these 
things,  reminded  of  them,  as  he  so  frequently 
Nvas,  by  those  who  watch  for  the  news  of  the 
day — tended  together  to  impart  some  degree  of 
illiberality  of  feeling  to  a  mind  on  which  na- 
ture never  intended  the  stamp  of  bigotry.  lie 
had  been  highly  pleased  in  the  acquisition  of 
Maria  3IorJcy  to  the  number  of  his  flock.     And 


XIO  ^llE    DIVIDED    FAMtLY. 

he  had  spared  no  pains  to  inspire  her  with  con- 
fidence in  his  doctrines.  Had  he  been  in  dan- 
ger of  losing  this  accession  by  a  wavering  of 
faith  through  the  efforts  of  another  denomina- 
tion in  the  city,  no  man  would  have  been  more 
indefatigable  in  his  exertions  to  prevent  such  a 
loss.  He  would  have  foreseen  in  it, — as  min- 
isters generally  foresee — not  the  mere  loss  of 
a  unit,  but  a  blow  at  both  credit  and  respecta- 
bility. A  single  such  defection  is  commonly 
regarded  as  the  incipient  stage  of  a  disease, 
which,  although  local  now,  threatens  the  health 
of  the  whole  body.  But  Maria  was  about  to 
leave  the  city.  No  serious  consequences  could 
result  to  his  charge  if  she  elsewhere  united 
with  another  denomination.  His  interest  on 
the  subject  was,  therefore,  not  great.  Yet  all 
this  was  a  secret  in  his  own  bosom.  To  have 
given  any  intimation  of  it  to  the  present  party 
would  have  dampened  their  zeal  by  destroying 
the  powerful  motive  on  which  it  subsisted. 
Such  and  so  frail  may  be  the  earthen  vessel  to 
which  the  riches  of  eternal  grace  are  commit- 
ted in  trust !  Such  is  the  spiritual  chicanery 
of  many  a  pious  advocate  of  the  Redeemer'^ 
cause ! 

Oh  it  is  vain  to  pj-otest  against  the  singu- 
larity of  this  example.    And  it  is  vain  to  atti-t- 


THE    DIVIDED   FAMILY-  H] 

biitc  to  congregations  not  deemed  evangelical 
til  at  esprit  de  corps  which  is  often  the  legiti- 
mate effect  of  illiberality.  It  is  an  infirmity, 
if  wc  may  so  call  it,  which  not  unfrequently 
distinguishes  the  pious  pastor  and  the  pious 
flock,  in  every  denomination  of  Christians.  It 
is  lamentable  but  not  the  less  true,  that  we  see 
more  pains  taken  to  swell  the  list  of  a  com- 
munion table,  than  to  accomplish  the  more  ar- 
duous task  of  cultivating  the  Christian  graces. 
Pride  and  vanity,  in  forms  most  imposing,  may 
mingle  with,  and  stimulate  the  very  "  labour  of 
love."  And  equally  in  vain  is  it  to  attempt  to 
hide  these  things  from  a  w^orld  that  is  keen- 
eyed  to  professional  defects,  suspicious  of  mo- 
tives, and  severe  on  the  detection  of  disguise. 
Mortifying  truth  should  be  lamented,  but  never 
denied.  Such  was  the  policy  of  the  sacred 
penmen.  They  have  described  but  a  single  per- 
fect character.  The  glory  of  patriarchs  and 
prophets  and  apostles  was  tarnished  with  hu- 
man evil.  But  it  is  a  position  admirable  as  it 
is  stable,  that  Christianity  is  not  dependent  on 
the  absolute  perfection  of  its  advocates.  In 
the  meanwhile,  let  every  minister  of  the  Gos- 
pel remember,  that  the  day  is  coming  when  the 
stubble  and  the  wood,  the  silver  and  the  gold 
shall  be  tried  in  the  furnace.     Ha])py  they  who 


112  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY, 

can  unite  with  a  simplicity  of  purpose,  and  a 
singleness  of  heart,  an  unaflected  zeal  for  the 
kingdom  of  the  Redeemer  !  Happy— where 
selfish  purpose  and  private  ambition  stain  not 
the  glory  of  the  cross ! 

Under  the  protection  of  a  friend  of  her  fa- 
ther, Maria  was  early  the  next  morning  on  her 
return  to  the  village  of  — — -  It  was  a  time 
favourable  for  thought.  Her  escort  was  too 
much  engrossed  in  the  news  of  the  day,  detail- 
ed bv  a  fellow  passenger  in  the  stage  coach,  or 
too  much  occupied  in  a  discussion  on  the  com- 
mercial affairs  of  B ,  to  interrupt  the  re- 
flections of  his  young  charge  by  any  other  at- 
tentions than  came  naturally  in  their  place. 
She  could,  therefore,  indulge  her  propensity  to 
silent  thought  with  all  the  freedom  she  desired. 
And  there  was  enough  in  the  past  and  future 
to  fill  up  every  hour  of  her  journey.  If  her 
mind  was  not  happy,  it  was  tranquil :  and  in  a 
little  time  that  tranquility  gave  place  to  a  high- 
er feeling.  The  gloomy  suggestions  of  the 
two  last  days,  although  at  first  not  entirely  re- 
moved, gradually  receded  to  the  back  ground. 
She  had  found  a  new  source  of  hope,  and  had 
drawn  so  largely  from  it  as  almost  to  forget  her 
recent  disquietude.  This  was  neither  more  nor 
less  than  the  prosclytism  of  her  relatives  to  the 


THE  nrviiJED  family.  113 

foith  she  had  espoused.  It  is  true,  some  diffi- 
culties presented  themselves,  and  it  might  be 
a  work  of  time.  But  these  difficulties  vanish- 
ed, and  the  time  was  shortened,  when  she  re- 
flected on  the  store  of  arguments  which  she 
had  treasured  against  the  '  day  of  temptation.' 
Besides — her  relatives  were  untrained  to  such 
discussion.  Her  father,  although  one  of  the 
best  informed  men,  had,  until  recently,  been 
indiffisrent  to  experimental  religion ;  and  his 
amiableness  of  temper  had  precluded  the  very 
mention  of  what  he  called  invidious  distinc- 
tions. It  was  not  therefore  probable  that  he 
was  prepared  for  an  assault  by  the  weapons 
with  which  she  was  so  well  armed.  But  es- 
pecially her  sister — after  all,  the  best  point  of 
attack  in  the  whole  citadel.  And  when  she 
had  gained  Clara,  the  eyes  of  her  parents  would 
be  opened :  parental  aff'ection  would  lend  its 
influence  to  weaken  existing  prejudices.  The 
conquest  would  be  complete.  And  how  de- 
lightful to  see  the  waning  away  of  unscriptu- 
ral  prepossessions  !  To  watch  the  progress  of 
light — the  dispersion  of  darkness  !  To  be  her- 
self  an  instrument  of  gathering  into  the  true 
fold  the  lambs  which  had  mistaken  the  way  ! 
She  already  felt  herself  the  harbinger  of  the 

Truth.     One  question,  and  one  only,   arose. 

15 


114  iHE    DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

How  should  she  broach  the  subject  1  A  con: 
certed  plan  avouUI  be  best :  but  she  had  no  as- 
sistant in  the  project.  '  Should  she  startle  by 
a  sudden  and  condensed  exposition  of  the 
truth  ]  Should  she  mildly  and  modestly  sug- 
gest a  doubt  on  some  passage  of  Scripture,  an 
examination  of  which  might  effect  her  end, 
with  very  little  trouble  on  her  own  part? — 
Should  she  open  a  masked  battery  on  the  whole 
trio,  in  some  unexpected  hour  1  or  should  she 
first  gradually  enlighten  the  mind  of  her  sister  V 
The  last  scheme  was  most  feasible.  It  would 
enable  her  to  examine  her  ground  with  preci- 
sion. Xt  would  give  her  time  to  look  out,  if  it 
ever  became  necessary  to  stand  on  the  defen- 
sive :  a  necessity  exceedingly  improbable,  but 

for  which  it  was  her  duty  to  be  provided. A 

hundred  times  she  went  through  the  different 
evolutions  which  the  case  would  require.  A 
hundred  times  she  displayed  the  manoeuvres  of 
a  successful  polemick.     And  a  hundred  times 

ghe  heard  the  concession "  Dear  Sister,  I 

believe  you  are  right !" 

Happy  in  these  anticipations,  her  heart  was 
Warmed  with  gratitude  to  God.  She  became 
eager  to  reach  her  native  village,  to  meet  the 
hearty  welcome  which  she  knew  to  await  lier. 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  115 

We  Avill  take  no  minutes  of  the  journey. 
We  will  pass  by  the  greetings  of  a  first  inter- 
view ;  for  neither  is  connected  with  the  morale 
of  our  story. 

On  the  first  day  after  her  arrival,  Maria  found 
jio  fair  opportunity  of  putting  either  of  her 
plans  into  execution.  Clara  was  occupied  in 
some  previous  engagement,  and  the  sisters  w  ere 
little  together.  In  the  evening  matters  ap- 
peared more  auspicious.  The  subject  of  con- 
versation which  her  father  had  commenced, 
was  one  that  left  an  opening  exactly  .such  as 
Maria  would  have  desired  ;  and  she  fdled  it 
^vith  a  hint  on  the  importance  of  conforming, 
in  all  things,  to  the  example  of  the  Saviour. 
But  cither  the  hint  was  not  taken,  or .  it  was 
purposely  overlooked :  for  the  general  reply 
which  succeeded  had  no  direct  ])earing  on  the 
object  before  her.  Another  opportunity  fol- 
lowed :  and  although  the  young  advocate  was 
more  explicit  than  before,  her  success  was  no 
greater.  She  had  sagacity  enough  to  discover 
the  apparent  disinclination  of  her  friends  to  Jier 
favourite  topic  ;  and  penetration  enough  to  see 
that  this  was  not  the  time  for  a  politic  cftbrt : 
But  she  had  not  enough  of  either  to  ascertain 
that  there  was  an  art  now  coping  with  her  own, 
with  the   great    advantage   of   watching   her 


116  THE   DIVIDED   t'AMILY. 

movements,  unknown  to  herself  An  art  whicli 
not  only  evaded  a  controversy,  but  improved 
on  all  her  suggestions,  by  giving  them  an  ex- 
perimental character.  Maria  was  suq>rizcd  at 
her  father's  want  of  discernment.  And  it  de- 
termined her  to  act  with  less  reserve  on  another 
occasion. 

No  judicious  and  affectionate  head  of  a  fam- 
ily can  forsee  a  division  in  religious  belief  among 
its  members,  without  entertaining  serious  appre- 
hensions for  the  result.  Mr.  Morley  had  dread- 
ed those  little  bickerings  which  he  had  some- 
times witnessed  among  the  professing  children 
of  God.  And  he  was  not  ignorant  that  where 
these  existed  among  relatives  zealous  far  their 
different  opinions,  the  peace  if  not  the  whole 
happiness,  of  the  parties  was  always  at  stake. 
Whatever  evil  had  ever  arisen,  within  his  own 
knowledge,  from  a  diversity  of  political  opinions, 
he  had  never  known  it  alarming :  but  always  like- 
ly to  be  removed  in  any  of  those  revolutions  of 
public  sentiment  to  which  a  republick  is  con- 
stantly subjected.  But  in  matters  of  religious 
opinion  it  was  not  so.  Here  the  object  of  con- 
tention is  permanent ;  and  it  lasts  with  the  lives 
of  the  parties.  In  the  former,  allowances  are 
made  for  the  warmth  of  debate  ;  and  much  that 
is  personally  caustic  may  give  but  little  offence. 


TItE    DIVIDED   FAMILY  117 

Even  imputations  that  arc  severe,  are  easily 
explained  by  a  latitude  of  meaning,  and  easily 
fogotten.  Not  so  in  the  latter.  Here  a  defe- 
rence is  claimed  on  the  score  of  charity  by 
both  sides  ;  likely  to  be  granted  by  neither. 
Each  believes  that  the  honour  of  God  is  at 
hazard ;  and  each  feels  bound  to  "  contend 
earnestly  for  the  faith  once  delivered  to  the 
saints."  Manner,  mode  of  expression,  and, 
above  all,  a  sense  of  weakness  on  one  side  of 
the  argument,  and  a  displayed  and  overweening 
consciousness  of  strength  on  the  other,  inflict 
wounds  which  are  among  the  most  difficult  to 
heaL,  Charity  leaves  the  plain  of  contest  to 
the  two  combatants,  without  waiting  to  see  the 
issue.  But  nowhere  is  this  truth  so  extensive- 
ly applicable  as  in  family  dift'erences  of  faith, 
where  the  parties  reside  together,  and  where 
each  is  influenced  by  zeal.  The  principle  is 
precisely  the  same  on  which  it  is  commonly  re- 
marked, that  domestic  feuds  are,  of  all  others 
the  most  bitter  and  most  irreconcilable.  As- 
sailant and  defendant  both  demand  an  influence 
over  each  other's  mind,  which  neither  yields. 
Both  conceive  themselves  at  liberty  to  abandon 
the  rules  of  courtesy,  and  neither  grants  the  liber- 
ty. Both  conceive  that  affection  ought  to  prevent 
offence  from  the  harshness  of  terms,  and  im- 


lib  THE    DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

plied  suspicion  of  integrity,  but  neither  admits 
it  in  himself.  Both  secretly  feel  that  the  sub- 
ject on  which  they  are  engaged,  is  paramount 
to  all  the  partialities  of  natural  affection. 

Here  Mr.  Morley  believed  he  had  reason  for 
apprehension.  He  was  aware  that  the  school 
in  which  Maria  had  received  her  late  religious 
instructions,  was  one  likely  to  make  the  deep- 
est impression  on  her  mind.  Two  letters  which 
he  had  received  from  his  sister-in-law,  previous 
to  his  own  change,  sufficiently  convinced  him 
of  this.  But  it  gave  him  little  uneasiness  while 
he  knew  of  no  fuel  to  feed  the  flame  of  jealou- 
sy, and  nothing  solid  with  which  his  daughter's 
opinions  could  come  in  collision.  He  would 
have  preferred  her  uniting  with  a  less  exclusive 
communion,  and  told  her  so.  Yet  his  prefe- 
rence was  not  sufficiently  strong  to  thwart  her 
inclinations.  But  now  that  every  member  of 
the  family  at  home  had  felt,  and  taken,  a  part 
in  the  subject  of  religion,  the  face  of  things 
was  altered.  Nothing  had  ever  seriously  dis- 
turbed the  harmony  of  his  house.  The  sisters 
had  ever  been  devoted  to  each  other.  A  sepa- 
ration in  religious  belief,  if  it  did  not  cool  the 
ardour  of  their  attachment,  might  somehow 
qualify  their  affection.  Or,  at  least,  it  would 
bring  new  temptations.     It  would  demand  a 


THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY.  119 

caution  and  forbearance  hitherto  uncalled  for, 
and  in  some  measure  painful.  It  might  create 
a  reserve  in  minds  that  had  been  congenial,  and 
open  to  each  other :  for  it  is  often  the  first  out- 
let of  affection  from  the  heart,  and  it  is  widen- 
<^d  by  the  escape  of  the  remainder.  And  al- 
though he  might  not  dread  an  evil  so  serious 
as  this,  there  was  enough  to  alarm  him  still. 

The  course  which  Mr.  3Iorley  had  prescribed 
for  himself  and  family  was  one  of  prudence. 
He  prohibited  the  introduction  of  any  subject 
which  might  touch  the  particular  views  of  Ma- 
ria, or  give  room  for  any  discussion  in  which 
they  were  involved,  until  he  had  conversed  witii 
her  himself.  He  examined,  with  care,  both 
sides  of  the  question.  And  he  did  so  with 
candour.  He  cared  very  little  whicli  side  was 
right.  And  he  was  perfectly  w  illing  to  relin- 
quish opinions  which  he  could  not  believe  of 
primary  importance,  or  connected  in  any  way 
with  the  primary  doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  rath- 
er than  encounter  the  more  formidable  alter- 
native of  a  division  in  his  family.  Mrs.  3Ior- 
ley  and  Clara,  therefore,  perfectly  understood 
the  manner  by  which  he  evaded  the  challenge 
of  Maria.  And  they  were  not  sorry  to  observe 
the  success  of  his  management. 

On  the  following  afternoon  the  sisters  were 
alone  together ;  and  Maria  renewed  her  effort. 


120  THE   DWIDEI)   FAMILY. 

Clara  explicitly  declined  the  discussion  of  a 
question  which  she  had  not  examined.  And 
all  that  her  sister  could  obtain  from  her  was,  a 
promise  to  investigate  it  with  her  at  another 
time.  "  In  the  meanwhile,"  she  added,  "  I  fear 
no  investigation  can  ever  reconcile  me  to  a  se- 
paration from  the  great  body  of  the  Church  of 
Christ.  Many  of  our  friends,  in  the  village, 
liavc  recently  obtained  the  same  hope  with  my- 
self. So,  too,  have  our  parents.  There  is 
something  too  endearing  in  the  idea  of  a  per- 
fect union  with  God's  people  on  earth,  and  espe- 
cially with  those  whom  we  have  always  loved,  to 
suffer  mc  to  relinquish  it.  You  will  pardon  me 
if  I  say  that  I  have  strong  prejudices  here. 
Instead  of  examining  whether  a  rite  of  a  Church 
has  been  properly  administered,  in  one,  or 
another,  form,  so  strong  are  my  feelings  on 
another  part  of  the  question  between  us,  that 
I  should  be  irresistibly  tempted  to  begin  my 
inquiries  there.  I  would  set  out  with  the  ad- 
mission that  you  are  right,  and  that  I  am  con- 
sequently wrong.  But  then  I  would  ask,  if  two 
individuals  are  mutually  convinced  of  their  own 
correctness  in  their  opposite  views,  in  the  man- 
ner of  administering  an  ordinance,  and  each 
entertained  a  persuasion  of  the  piety  of  the 
other,  whether  there  is  not  a  radical  defect  in 
a  system,  which,  on  account  of  this  difference, 


THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY.  121 

sunders  these  friends,  and  utterly  forbids  their 
uniting  in  the  most  affecting  emblem  ^f  love. 
Or,  if  this  disunion  be  the  proper  effect  of  such 
a  diversity  of  sentiment,  then  I  am  at  a  loss 
why  tlie  Saviour  has  not  left  us  an  express  and 
positive  direction,  in  respect  to  the  manner  of 
this  rite,  and  especially  so  if  such  disunion  were 
to  be  occasioned  by  it,  and  he  had  taken  so 
much  pains  to  inculcate  harmony  among  his 
disciples.  It  must  be  admitted,  at  best,  that 
revelation  is  not  clear  enough  on  the  matter  of 
our  difference  to  prevent  the  learned  and  the 
good  from  taking  opposite  sides.  This  alone 
convinces  me  tiiat  it  cannot  be  a  matter  of  im- 
portance.  But  it  is  rendered  a  matter  of  al- 
most vital  importance,  if  taking  one  view  of 
the  question  debars  us  from  an  intercommu- 
nion with  those  who  hold  the  other.  Now  I 
am  not  sure  that  this  is  not  assuming  an  au- 
thority which  no  Church  on  earth  has  a  right 
to  exercise.  Any  way  of  thinking,  which  in- 
volves a  principle  of  this  magnitude  of  evil, 
seems  to  me  to  carry  its  condemnation  on  its 
own  front.  And  I  am  so  tempted  to  fly  from 
it  that  I  fmd  it  hard  to  examine  its  features." 

"  Sister !" 

"  I  know  there  is  something  of  a  harshness  in 

this  mode  of  expression.    But  it  is  difficult  to 

16 


1^2  TWE    DIVfCED   FAMILY. 

avoid  an  appearance  of  harshness  on  a  subject 
so  repulsive.  The  very  terms  which  it  suggests, 
unpleasant  as  they  are,  are  a  fair  transcript  of 
the  images  it  brings  before  us.  I  am  sure  it 
cannot  be  possible  for  you,  Maria,  to  reflect 
upon  it,  without  feeling  your  tenderest  affec- 
tions rudely  assailed  ;  or  without  lamenting  that 
any  sentiment  can  be  found  in  the  Bible,  which, 
while  it  effects  no  possible  good,  thereby  rives 
the  bands  of  spiritual  union." 

Maria  did  not  like  this  appeal.  She  was  not 
prepared  for  it.  Yet  to  parry  it  now  was  im- 
possible. To  answer  it  was  equally  so.  She 
felt  that  it  was  unfair  to  allude  to  her  sensibili- 
ties on  a  point  in  regard  to  which  they  were  so 
vulnerable.  Yet  to  say  so,  it  occurred  to  her, 
was  almost  giving  up  the  question  :  For  a 
principle  which  in  its  simplest  form  could  pro- 
duce such  an  eft'ect  on  the  heart,  seemed  hard- 
ly reconcileable  with  the  harmonizing  precepts 
of  the  Gospel,  while  it  appeared  to  frown  on 
sensibilities  which  were  never  forbidden,  and 
which  are  necessary  to  our  happiness. — 
But  Maria  was  able  to  rally  herself  at  least  for 
the  present.  She  accused  herself  of  weakness 
in  the  retreat  which  a  momentary  silence  had 
indicated.  Her  favourite  argument,  of  the 
duty  of  selX-denial,  was  at  hand.    But  Clara 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  ijja 

gave  a  sad  sliockto  this  by  the  inquiry,  *  -vvUcther 
we  are  at  liberty  to  make  an  artificial  cross  for 
ourselves,  any  more  than  to  create  temptations  to 
test  our  obedience  or  strength — and  particularly 
when  we  are  doing  violence  to  our  nature,  Avith- 
out  a  prospect  of  real  good,  either  to  our  own 
souls  or  those  of  others.' 

The  discussion  came  near  to  personality,  as 
such  discussions  usually  do ;  and  although  neith- 
er of  the  sisters  was  disposed  to  inflict  pain  in 
the  bosom  of  the  other,  neither  was  insensible 
of  receiving  it.  Any  unhappy  allusions  that 
Avere  made,  referred  to  the  disunion  of  their 
profession,  and  to  the  disappointed  hopes  of 
both.  Both  wept ;  but  neither  felt  disposed  to 
yiekl . 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  the  night 
with  which  this  narrative  commenced  ;  when 
the  prayer  at  the  family  altar  i-evived  afresh  the 
feelings  of  the  afternoon.  Mr.  Blorley  had 
made  it  a  leading  petition  that  the  great  Head 
of  the  Church  would  unite  with  each  other  the 
hearts  of  all  his  household.  A  petition  in  which 
Maria  could  heartily  join,  though  she  saw  less 
hope  of  its  accomplishment,  and  felt  more  the 
necessity  of  special  influence  to  crown  her  own 
efforts  with  success. 


124  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

During  the  succeeding  week  very  little  trans- 
pired worthy  of  record,  excepting  that  a  private 
interview  between  the  father  and  daughter,  in 
the  library  of  the  former,  effected  no  other  end 
than  that  of  displaying  the  candour  of  the  one 
and  the  firmness  of  the  other,  and  it  might  be 
added,  the  aftectionate  feelings  of  both.  Yet 
it  would  have  been  obvious  to  an  observer  who 
had  known  all  the  parties  a  year  before,  that 
something  of  thoughtful  concern  occupied  the 
bosoms  of  them  all.  The  season  was  approach- 
ing in  which  three  of  them  were  publickly  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  the  Redeemer  :  but  this 
was  no  ground  of  sadness  with  either.  They 
looked  forward  to  tliat  event  with  all  the  con- 
fidence that  attends  a  sincere  hope  in  his  prom- 
ises. 

Oh  let  it  not  be  said  that  the  sundering  of 
-pious  relatives  at  the  table  of  Christ  is  of  too 
little  moment  to  merit  all  this  solicitude.  The 
young  Christian,  whatever  his  natural  age,  an- 
ticipates that  solemn  occasion,  as  a  marked  era 
of  his  life — as  the  high  festival  of  sympathy — 
as  the  sacramental  cement  between  the  chil- 
dren of  God— as  the  type  of  the  marriage  sup- 
per of  the  Lamb — as  the  symbol  of  separation 
between  the  redeemed  and  the  lost.  And  even 
the  aged  Christian,  who  has  trodden  far  on  the 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  125 

way  of  his  pilgrimage,  looks  back  to  siuih  pc> 
riods  as  distinguishable  goals  in  his  life,  and 
gathers  a  freshness  of  feeling  from  the  society 
of  kindred  faith.  But  where  the  partakers  of 
the  same  flesh  and  blood  are  about  to  avouch  a 
imity  of  interests  in  the  representation  of  the 
family  of  Christ,  who  does  not  see  the  light  of 
a  spiritual  affection  received  and  reflected  from 
each  other  there.  In  the  duty  of  prayer,  there 
may  indeed  be  the  blending  of  faith  and  love. 
But  it  is  an  act  that  brings  not  at  once  to  the 
sight  the  glad  society  of  Heaven  :  there  is 
something  of  an  effort  to  fore-gather  the  future  ; 
and  though  it  remind  us  of  the  group  above,  it 
does  so  by  reminding  us  at  the  s;une  time,  that 
we  belong  to  the  militant  below — for  [)rayer  is 
not  the  occupation  of  spirits  consummated  in 
glory.  But  the  festival  of  the  Lamb  that  was 
slain  is  the  forth-shadowing  of  the  very  em- 
ployment of  purified  souls,  who  ascribe  "  pow- 
er and  riches,  and  wisdom  and  strength,  and 
honour  and  glory  and  blessing,"  to  Him  that 
died  and  rose  again.  It  is  the  very  prepara- 
tive scene  that  brings  to  our  view  the  engage- 
ments of  the  blessed.  I^et  the  heart  be  filled 
with  a  celestial  love — let  a  holy  gratitude  as- 
sist in  giving  birth  to  its  emotions — and  there 
is  not  u  place  beneath  the  throne  of  God^  so 


126  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

rich  and  so  Iiappy,  to  his  adopted  children.— 
And  then  a  first  communion  ! — who  does  not 
recollect  the  swellings  of  hope — the  meek  con- 
fidence, rising  above  timidity  and  fear — the  far- 
cast  thought  from  type  to  antitype — the  aspi- 
rations for  holy  unison — the  panting  of  a  thirs- 
ty spirit — the  lofty  expectations,  struggling 
with  diffidence  of  self  I — 

The  three  Morleys  were  yet  infants  in  Christ. 
With  all  the  ardour  and  simplicity  of  children 
they  loved.  But  they  could  do  no  less  than 
mourn,  that  Maria,  dear  as  she  was  to  all  of 
them,  was  to  stand  off  from  the  tendered  ex- 
change of  pledges.  It  looked  like  a  solitary 
state  of  spiritual  being,  hapless  and  isolated. 

And  she,  too, would  she  not  realize  that 

desolation  of  feeling  which  a  divided  member 
of  a  household  would  encounter  at  this  spec- 
tacle \ 

Poor  Maria  !  To  her  all  conversation  on  the 
approaching  occasion  carried  new  distress.  At 
one  time,  she  sighed  for  the  presence  of  her 
\unt.  At  another,  she  doubted  whether  any 
sentiment  ought  to  keep  her  back  from  a  par- 
ticipation at  the  Table  ;  or  whether  there  was 
not  some  inconsistency  in  such  a  requirement. 
And  then,  again,  she  blamed  herself  for  listen- 
ing to  the  voice  of  temptation,  when  it  became 


THE    DrVIDI<:D    FAMILY.  VJ? 

her  to  exhibit  the  fortitude  of  a  decided  Chris- 
tian. 

One  thing  tended  to  increase  the  nnhappi- 
ness  of  Maria's  mind  :  It  was  the  respectful 
deference  paid  to  her  feelings,  by  both  parents 
and  sister — the  great  delicacy  with  wfiicli  they 
ever  touched  on  the  approaching  occasion ; 
and  the  care  which  they  seemed  to  take  to  ren- 
der her  situation  happy.  They  knew  the  nature 
of  her  conscientious  scruples ;  and  they  cautiously 
avoided  inflicting  through  them  any  additional 
pain.  This  she  saw  and  felt  ;  and  while  it  fill- 
ed her  bosom  with  gratitude,  it  rendered  the 
struarffle  there  more  severe  than  ever. 

The  eventful  morning  arrived.  It  was  a  love- 
ly Sabbath  All  nature  appeared  to  smile  at 
its  opening,  and  to  hail  the  day,  as  if  a  common 
interest  in  what  was  to  distinguish  it  here,  were 
felt  by  the  inanimate  creation. 

We  may  not  justly  deny  the  influence  of 
cither  weather  or  scenery  on  minds  that  are 
sensitive,  and  that  are  intent  on  some  great 
purpose  of  life.  And  yet  we  may  be  ignorant 
of  the  causes  of  certain  eflects  produced  by 
either  :  effects  that  settle  down  in  the  memory, 
and  become  visible  in  every  retrospect  of  the 
past.  It  is  not  superstition.  It  is  not  the  spe- 
culations of  an  auguring  temper.     It  is  the  im- 


12S  THE   DIVIDED   FA3IILY. 

pressibility  of  feelings,  which  without  reflection 
on  our  own  part,  receive  the  image  of  all  thdt 
is  passing  near  them,  and  catcli  the  tints  of  the 
colouring  around  them. 

And  yet  are  there  moods,  too,  when  we  are 
more  sensible  to  the  effect  of  contrasts,  than  tp 
a  congeniality  of  appearances  around  us  :  when 
a  deeper  impression  is  produced  on  the  sunken 
spirits  by  the  ciieerfulness  of  men  and  things, 
than  by  the  most  lugubrious  sound  or  sight  of 
sorrow :  moments,  when  the  appearance  of 
happiness  in  others,  or  the  cheerful  aspect  of 
nature,  looks  like  an  intentional  mockery  of  our 
woes — a  sarcasm  on  the  bitterness  of  our  grief. 
Sorrow  may  be  jealous,  irritable,  and  suspicious, 
when  neither  quality  could  claim  a  natural  seat 
in  the  mind.  And  though  not  one  of  them  was 
brought  into  visible  play  in  Maria  Morley,  had 
she  examined  the  chambers  of  her  heart,  she 
would  have  found  some  of  its  furniture  unsuit- 
ed  to  a  residence  of  tiie  Holy  Spirit :  for,  ami- 
able as  she  was,  there  was  a  latent  proneness 
to  murmur  at  the  imhappiness  of  her  lot :  la- 
tent to  herself ;  forbad  it  met  her  own  eye  a 
generous  temper  would  have  flashed  in  the 
consciousness  of  diminished  dignity  of  cha- 
racter. 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  329 

The  village  Church  had  been  crowded  for 
some  months  past,  in  the  services  of  the  ^veek, 
as  well  as  of  the  Sabbath.  It  was  now  literal- 
ly overflowing.  Ciiristians  of  the  neighl)our- 
ing  towns,  who  during  a  revival  of  religion  are 
in  the  habit  of  visiting  its  place  of  operation, 
to  catch  and  bear  back  a  portion  of  the  holy 
fire  to  their  own  less  favoured  part  of  Zion,  had 
sembled  in  numbers.  At  an  early  hour,  and 
without  a  sound  of  confusion  or  bustle,  every 
worshipper  had  taken  his  place.  And  an  ob- 
server might  have  marked  an  air  of  expectan- 
cy diffused  among  them  all. 

In  a  scene  such  as  this  the  most  decided  op- 
ponent of  a  revival  is  likely  to  forget,  for  the 
time,  both  his  reasonings  and  his  prejudices. 
Had  enthusiasm  uttered  one  of  her  incoherent 
notes — had  the  excitement  of  mere  passion  an- 
nounced itself  in  an  act  or  a  voice,  there  were 
those  present  who  would  have  been  gladdened  by 
an  evidence  of  the  validity  of  their  objections  ;  or 
at  least  relieved  from  an  undesirable  participa- 
tion in  the  solemn  feelings  of  the  hour.  How- 
ever we  may  pity  or  despise  the  ravings  of  fan- 
aticism ;  or  the  contemptible  efforts  to  arouse 
mere  animal  feelings,  we  are  compelled  to  yield 
our  attention  without  an  effort  to  divert  it,  w  hen 

17 


130  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY, 

the  "  Stately  stcppings"  of  the  Most  High  arc 

distinguishable  to  the  sight. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  remark  of  a  mili- 
tary officer  made  on  an  occasion  similar  to  the 
one  before  ns  :  "  He  who  on  the  eve  of  a  bat- 
"  tie  cowers  before  the  loud  and  tumultuous 
*•'  shout  of  the  enemy,  loses  that  presence  of  mind 
"  which  might  enable  him  to  suspect  a  conscious 
'*  weakness  from  the  war-cry  of  the  foe,  and 
"  that  might  teach  him  to  repel  the  violence  of 
*'  confusion,  by  system  and  coolness.  But  he 
'  who  has  been  on  the  eve  of  a  battle  may 
•'  know  that  there  is  nothing  so  apalling  in  the 
"  stratagems  of  war  as  the  firm  tread  and  death- 
"  like  silence  of  a  fixed-bayonetted  corps. — 
"  Here  is  time  for  thought ;  but  it  is  thought 
"  that  dwells  on  certain  and  deliberate  carnage. 
"  I  have  considered  this  applicable  to  the  pre- 
"'  sent  scene.  The  opposer  of  religion  in  o 
''  place  of  religious  confusion  may  be  affected- 
''  alarmed,  and  confounded  and  yield  alike  his 
^'  passions  and  his  judgement :  or  he  may  be 
"  excited  by  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous  :  or,  a  self- 
"  collectedness  may  keep  him  on  his  guard  ; 
*'  and  indignation  against  prostituted  reason 
''  may  create  a  renewed  aversion  to  the  sober- 
"  est  truths  of  the  Gospel.     But  in  the  stillness 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  131 

'*  of  such  a  scene  as  this,  I  have  seen  tlic  proud- 
'•  est  votary  of  reason  quail." 

And  so,  too,  have  I.  I  have  beheld  hini 
looking  vsith  a  dilated  eye  on  hundreds  around 
him,  who,  without  meeting  his  gaze,  imparted 
the  dark  solemnity  of  their  hearts  to  his  own. 
L  have  seen  in  the  effectual  eftbrt  to  array  his 
reason  against  the  host  that  conscience  led  in 
his  bosom,  while  he  felt  as  if  the  ground  were 
heaving  beneath  him ;  and  as  if  from  the  midst 
of  the  crowd  he  was  singled  out  by  the  stern 
gaze  of  an  offended  God  ;  .^^ingled  out,  and 
ALONE — as  every  condemned  sinner  shall  stand, 
in  the  throng  awaiting  the  Judgement  doom. 
.\nd  the  simplest  sentence  recorded  on  the  page 
of  revelation,  and  repeated  by  lips  the  most 
artless,  has  told  "  trumpet-tongued"  with  the 
power  of  Almighty  breathing.  I  have  dissec- 
ted again  and  again,  the  materials  of  such  a 
scene.  I  have  tried  to  account,  by  some  plain 
rule  of  analogy,  for  effects  so  powerful  at  the 
moment,  so  permanent  and  efficient  w^hen  that 
moment  was  past.  But  I  could  discover  no- 
thing artificial  in  the  movements  of  this  moral 
machinery — nothing  gotten  up — nothing  pre- 
concerted. Every  soul  addressed  himself  to 
the  occasion,  consentaneously,  and  for  himself. 
The  leading  feature  of  the  whole  was  a  disco- 


1325  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

verable  fixedness  of  thought ;  and  the  only 
mark  of  emotion  was  the  quiet  tracing  of  the 
tear,  or  the  fallen  visage,  that  noted  a  still  more 
redundant  sorrow. 

Give  all  these  symptoms  to  a  single  indivi- 
dual :  and  he  that  assents  to  evangelical  truth 
shall  call  it  the  work  of  God  :  and  can  it  be 
less  so  when  with  a  mighty  march  they  spread 
through  the  bosoms  of  a  community  I  And  is  it 
any  more  an  evidence  against  the  Divine  power  of 
such  effects  that  they  have  their  seasons  and  are 
gone,  than  it  is  an  evidence  against  the  reality 
of  the  work  on  the  day  of  Pentecost  that  its 
duration  was  brief?  In  both  cases  the  results 
are  as  lasting  as  life  in  the  hearts  and  lives  of 
many.  And  strange  were  it  if  in  both  cases — ag 
ill  individual  instances  of  serious  impression- 
there  were  not  some  whose  new-found  hopes 
were  as  the  "  morning  cloud  and  the  early 
dew  :"  Strange,  if  there  were  not  in  the  mass 
that  witnessed  both,  fears  and  emotions  that 
were  transient  as  the  scene  itself.  There  is 
not  a  cavil  that  is  applied  to  the  changes  effect- 
ed in  a  general  work  of  grace,  that  does  not 
reach  to  particular  examples  in  ordinary  sea- 
sons. Produce  the  conviction  in  the  minds  oi' 
a  hundred  at  once,  that  the  spirit  of  God  is 
earnest  and  urgent,  and  you  have  eficcted  the 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  133 

same  end  that  would  have  been  accomplished 
in  each  of  the  hundred,  had  that  conviction 
reached  them  when  a  thousand  leagues  apart. 
Separtite  an  individual  from  the  little  circle  in 
which  he  moves,  by  a  change  in  his  spiritual 
circumstances,  and  a  lesson  is  conveyed  to  the 
remaining  members  of  that  circle,  which,  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  is  felt  as  a  warning,  and 
possibly  carries  a  sense  of  danger  to  one  or 
more.  This  is  a  fact  of  daily  observation. 
But  let  not  the  example  be  solitary.  Take  the 
number  of  four  or  five,  and  it  is  no  matter  of 
surprise  if  we  see  the  ratio  of  effects  propor- 
tioned to  that  number  :  and  still  less  so  if  these 
effects  multiply  themselves.  Add  to  this  the 
awakened  zeal  of  Christians,  which  plays  more 
than  a  single  part  in  the  day  of  refreshing — 
sending  up  the  prayer  of  faith  for  the  blessing 
of  Heaven,  and  acting  as  a  means  on  earth  to 
excite  the  attention  of  the  careless. 

A  revival,  then,  is  the  same  system  of  means 
exercised  on  a  larger  scale,  which  is  success- 
fully adopted  in  separate  antl  particular  cases, — 
with  the  simple  difference  of  a  multiplied  force, 
and  a  united  faith.  And  if  a  continuance  of 
these  means,  on  the  part  of  Christians,  do  not 
extend  their  influence  through  every  bosom, 
the  reason  is  still  the  same  with  that  which  we 


134  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

assign  to  the  failure  of  extraordinary  opportu- 
nities  on  the  part  of  the  sinner.  The  very  ten- 
dency of  the  Gospel  is  to  harden,  where  it  does 
not  melt  down  the  natural  opposition  of  the 
heart.  And  that  tendency  is  the  more  decisive, 
as  the  privileges  and  calls  are  greater  and  louder. 

It  was  they  who  had  witnessed  all  this,  who 
assembled  at  the  present  auspicious  hour.  To 
many  of  them  the  scene  was  novel.  It  is  true, 
that  they  had  seen  the  spreading  of  the  com- 
munion-table many  a  time  before.  But  it  was 
invested  with  a  character  to  which  they  had 
been  strangers.  Some  of  them  had  a  sacred 
right  to  a  seat  at  the  board  ;  and  they  knew  of 
its  comforts,  and  they  prized  its  mercies.  But 
even  to  most  of  these  there  was  much  that  was 
super-added  on  the  present  occasion.  Others 
were  to  touch  these  symbols  with  a  yet  untried 
hand.  While  in  the  breast  of  others  again,  a 
repressed  sigh  was  labouring  to  escape,  at  the 
thought  that  a  barrier  yet  stood  between  them 
and  the  consecrated  table. 

The  services  of  praise  and  prayer  were  im- 
pressive, and  even  affecting.  In  the  latter  the 
Pastor  was  singularly  gifted.  His  desires  flow- 
ed forth  with  all  that  natural  ease,  and  all  that 
fervency  of  expression,  that  betokened  a  mind 
familiar  with  a  throne  of  grace,  and,  in  its  near- 


THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY.  135 

ness,  catching  and  returning  a  spiritual  warmth. 
His  language  was  rich  ;  but  it  was  in  Scripture 
collocation  ;  as  if  his  w  ish  and  his  effort  had 
been  to  address  Deity  in  terms  of  his  own.  It 
was  prayer  in  its  true  cliaracteristic  simplicity. 
There  w  as  no  secondary  motive ;  no  endeavour 
to  affect  the  feelings  of  the  assembly — no  co- 
vert design  to  arouse  the  conscience  of  the  un- 
affected, or  to  alarm  the  fears  of  the  careless — 
no  denunciation — no  semblance  of  an  artifice 
w  hich  betrays  attention  to  a  double  object,  that 
of  addressing  himself  to  both  God  and  man — 
no  prostitution  of  the  great  purpose  of  peti- 
tion— no  wresting  of  its  end.  It  was  prayer 
as  it  should  be, — the  offering  of  a  singleness  of 
heart,  that  asked  the  ear  of  the  Almighty,  to 
speak  to  it  alone.  And,  I  thought,  had  the 
veriest  opposer  followed  the  workings  of  that 
mind,  while  he  would  have  seen  no  stratagem 
that  levelled  a  side-handed  blow  at  himself,  he 
must  have  felt  at  what  an  infinite  remove  was 
his  own  spirit  from  the  place  of  tliat  spirit  that 
had  now  entered  "  within  the  vail." 

And  in  the  reflection  that  other  spirits  around 
him  had  risen,  too,  he  would  have  known  that 
sense  of  isolation  w  hich  sometimes  steals  over 
'•  the  left  of  God."  And  when  the  petitioner 
presented  the  hopes  and  desires  of  the  Cliris- 
tian,  he  plead  the  security  of  the   ground  on 


136  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

which  he  stood,  Us  stability  and  its  assurance— 
the  ground  of  blood-sealed  promise.  He  spake 
of  the  love  of  Jesus — and  thought  of  the  mes- 
sage of  Martha  and  Mary,  strengthened  by  that 
reminding,  "he  whonithou  lovesC — and!  knew 
that  human  lips  can  prefer  no  plea  more  pre- 
valent. And  when  he  held  the  lambs  of  the 
flock  in  the  arms  of  prayer,  and  spake  of  their 
feebleness  and  their  fears,  their  dangers  and 
their  wants,  I  fancied  the  up-lookings  of  the 
young  disciples  as  rays  converging  to  their  com- 
mon point — the  throne  of  paternal  mercy.  And 
there  was  a  tenderness,  a  solicitude,  and  a  sweet- 
ness of  expression,  in  the  tone  and  manner  of 
the  act  that  carried  imagination  to  a  greater 
than  that  pastor — the  great  and  good  shepherd 
of  Israel. 

The  discourse  which  succeeded  was  a  plain 
and  sensible  exhibition  of  the  design  and  pri- 
vileges of  the  sacramental  supper.  In  this,  too, 
there  was  one  thing  worthy  of  notice  in  the 
speaker — for  orator  he  was  not :  it  was  the  oc- 
casion that  produced  the  impression  of  oratory^ 
and  acted  silently  like  the  gesticulator  behind 
the  Roman  declaimer,  giving  force  to  the  de- 
clamation. The  distinguishing  point  to  which 
I  allude,  was  the  use  that  was  made  of  the  suf- 
ferings and  death  of  the  Redeemer.  No  at- 
tempt was  made  to  call  into  action  unnecessary 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  187 

sensibilites,  or  to  excite  the  passions  %vhere 
they  could  be  of  no  practical  value.  The  pangs 
of*  the  dying  Saviour  were  mentioned  with  pa- 
thos :  but  the  Teelinffs  were  not  allowed  to  spend 
and  exhaust  themselves  on  an  object  of  mere 
pity,  though  that  object  were  the  agonies  of 
Him  "  who  gave  himself  for  us."  It  was  the 
consequences  of  sin,  which  such  a  spectacle 
presented — it  was  the  evidence  of  both  the 
ability  and  the  will  to  save,  even  to  the  utter- 
most— it  was  the  demonstration  of  love — it  was  a 
soul-piercing  reproof  of  ingratitude — appealing 
only  to  those  sensibilities  which  are  intimately 
connected  with  our  practice — it  was  these  ma- 
terials which  were  woven  into  the  address  of 
the  speaker :  and  not  a  communicant  who  af- 
terwards sat  down  at  that  table  could  have  es- 
caped the  reflection  that  purity,  love,  activity, 
and  obedience,  were  parts  of  a  pledge  he  was 
engaged  to  redeem. 

When  the  ordinances  of  God  are  thus  made 
the  instrument  of  rendering  our  sense  of  duty 
discriminating  and  quick,  they  become  power- 
ful auxiliaries  to  promote  a  holiness  of  life. 
But  whenever  their  great  end  is  kept  out  of  sight, 
they  as  easily  become  the  means  of  encoura- 
ging a  hypocritical  hope. 

18 


138  THE    DIVIDED    lAxMILY. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  sermon,  the  names 
of  more  than  sixty  persons  were  repeated  by 
the  minister  ;  who  formally  invited  them  to  the 
preliminary  act  of  admission  to  the  fellowship 
of  the  Church.  These  persons  arose ;  and 
presented  themselves  in  the  middle  aisle,  facing 
the  pulpit.  He  now  read  a  form  of  publick 
covenant,  in  which  the  newly-admitted  mem- 
bers confessed  their  faith  in  the  leading  doc- 
trines of  the  Bible,  their  sense  of  guilt,  and 
their  humble  hope  in  the  Gospel ;  while  they 
renounced  a  life  of  sin,  and  solemnly  promised, 
in  dependence  on  God,  to  devote  the  future  to 
the  service  of  Him,  to  whom  they  now  dedica" 
ted  body  and  spirit.  This  profession  and  co- 
venant were  succeeded  by  an  affecting  charge  : 
it  was  one  that  inforced  obligations  lasting  as 
life,  and  reaching  in  the  effects  of  fidelity  or 
apostacy,  throughout  eternity  itself.  What  an 
engagement  was  here  !  what  a  fealty  avowed  ! 

what  a  high   and  holy  calling  ! And  yet  is 

the  responsibility  of  that  act  no  greater  than 
when  invested  with  less  of  the  circumstance  of 
publicity  and  form.  If  it  were  rendered  more 
memorable  by  the  manner  in  which  it  was  im- 
posed and  assumed,  nothing  adventitious,  and 
nothing  of  human  injunction,  attached  to  it  an 
artificial  character.     That  very  form,  as  far  a? 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  139 

it  is  possible  to  ascertain,  preserved  a  close  re- 
semblance to  the  admission  of  members  in  the 
primitive  days  of  the  Church.  And  though  1 
know  not  how  far  a  general  position  may  be 
hazarded,  yet,  as  far  as  my  own  observation 
has  extended  those  churches  which  render  the 
admission  of  members  alike  solemn  and  pub- 
lick,  have  been  those  in  which  the  spiritual 
interests  have  been  most  carefully  watched, 
discipline  the  most  rigidly  enforced,  and  the 
means  of  grace  the  most  signally  blessed. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  ellcct  of  this 
ceremony  on  the  mind  of  an  interested  specta- 
tor without  bringing  near  much  that  did  not 
meet  the  eye,  but  reached  the  understanding 
through  another  medium.  Yet  much  there  was 
visible  that  was  intelligible  without  the  aid  of 
an  intcr})rcter.  The  aged  sinner  was  among 
that  band  of  young  disciples.  Three  score 
and  ten  had  left  their  track  as  they  passed  over 
hhn  :  And  they  had  covered  his  heart  with  an 
armour  impenetrable  as  the  rind  of  Leviathan 
to  all  but  a  commissioned  Ithuriel's  spear. 
Here  he  now  stood,  submissive  and  docile  and 
simple-hearted  as  the  child  of  two  sunnners. 
lie  did  not  weep  ;  but  there  was  a  tenderness 
in  his  countenance  that  sweetly  attempered 
M'ith   tlie  mellowness  of  ac^e. And   others 


140  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

were  there,  whom  three  score  and  ten  had 
nearly  reached :  and  there  were  less  mature  : 
and  the  youth  and  the  maiden  ;  the  late  bold 
infidel — the  proud  opposer — and  the  contemner 
of  the  sanctuary.  What  a  diversity  of  cha- 
racter a  few  months  since !     What  a  lovely 

amalgamation  now  ! Spirit   of   God !   how 

wonderful  thy  transforming  influence.  A  few 
months  since,  and  the  gentlest  in  that  band  was 
utterly  intractable.  The  overweening  moralist 
stood  haughtily  aloof.  The  lover  of  pleasure 
revelled  in  contempt  of  every  warning.  The 
drunkard  was  lighting  the  torch  at  botli  ends 
to  consume  body  and  soul.— — ^Yet  there  they 
stood,  enrolled  under  the  banners  of  the  Cross. 
And  their  hatred  and  their  loves,  their  fears 
and  their  hopes  and  their  joys,  might  have  met 
each  other  without  a  jar.  And  they  did  ineet 
together,  as  they  never  met  before.  In  the 
prayer  that  terminated  this  part  of  the  Minis- 
ters duty,  they  met  in  a  harmony  like  that  of 
Heaven. 

I  had  observed  that  the  loft  of  the  choristers 
was  nearly  empty.  Its  usual  occupants  were 
the  best  singers  in  the  congregation,  without 
distinction  of  families.  But  all  of  these  were 
now,  with  a  single  exception,  numbered  among 
th^  visible  Church.      By  a   preconcerted  ar 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  141 

rangc'iiKint — but  one  that  was  novel  to  nic — 
the  leader  of  the  choir  struck  the  first  words  of 
a  hymn  familiar  to  the  memory  of  almost  every 
worshipper  there, 

•  Come  tliou  Fount  of  ovcry  ble.-sing 
Tune  my  hcurt  to  sing  thy  grace  ; 
Streams  of  mercy,  never  ceasing 
Call  for  songs  of  loudest  praiic. 

Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger 
Wandering  from  the  fold  of  God; 
He  to  rescue  mc  from  danger, 
Interposed  with  precious  blood. 

Oh  to  grace  how  great  a  debtor 
Daily  I'm  constrained  to  be,*&.c.'" 

The  effect  was  sudden,  sweet  and  powerful, 
as  they  tiled  off  with  tliis  symphony,  to  the 
spread  table  in  the  right  aisle  of  the  building. 
That  mingling  of  voices  might  liave  penetrated 
every  hearer.  The  most  fastidious  ear  would 
have  heard  melody,  even  in  the  untrained 
sounds  of  the  ungiftcd,  and  in  the  broken  and 
tremulous  utterings  of  age.  But  in  the  clear 
and  strong  emphasis  of  the  words 

Jesus  sought  me  when  a  stranger 
Wandering  from  the  fold  of  God  ; 

there  w  as  the  musick  of  the  soul.  It  was  pour- 
ed forth  in  the  natural  flow  of  feeling.  It  was 
caught  up  by  others  who  rose  from  their  seats, 
as  that  company  passed,  and  united  their  voices 
as  they  brought  up  the  rear. 


142  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

A  general  invitation  had  been  given  to  stran 
gers  of  other  denominations  to  partake  in  the 
commemoration  ;  and  it  was  accepted  by  many. 
But  the  song  of  Zion  was  not  more  general. 
The  impression  which  it  made  was  too  deep, 
and  too  universal,  not  to  carry  its  meaning  into 
every  mind  ;  and  not  to  leave  a  home-felt  con- 
Tiction  with  those  who  were  silent — "  I  have 
no  part  or  lot  in  this  matter."  The  solitary 
chorister  who  occupied  the  orchestra  and  who 
with  others  had  a  thousand  times  sung  the 
praises  of  the  Redeemer's  kingdom,  sat  a  mute 
observer  of  the  passing  scene :  for  there  was  a 
hallowedness  in  the  whole,  that  checked  the 
mockery  of  unfelt  praises. 

Oh   how  often   have  I  witnessed   that 

strange  and  thoughtless  daring"  of  the  uncon- 
verted sinner,  while  he  sung  of  Heaven's  glory 
and  of  the  Saviour's  love  :  or,  in  strains  that 
might  confound  the  most  secure,  he  told  of  the 
stern  justice  of  an  unreconciled  God,  and  of 
the  doom  of  the  lost !  Such  and  so  far  is  the 
infatuation  of  the  heart !  He  that  is  standing 
on  the  shelving  edge  of  the  Abyss,  without  an 
emotion  save  the  very  pleasure  of  the  deed, 
sings  of  its  horrors  thoughtless  of  himself— 
himself  the  subject  of  the  song  ! 


Tin:    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  [  i\i 

I  know  that  an  unconverted  soul  can  listen 
with  pleasure  to  the  eloquent  tongue  that  des- 
cribes the  terrors  of  a  dark  eternity,  and  tin; 
amusement  shall  be  in  that  }50\ver  of  descrip- 
tion. But  passing  this  is  it,  far  past  this,  when 
his  own  lips  take  up  the  theme  of  his  personal 
fate,  and  his  very  vanity  is  indulged  in  the  act. 
Is  there  in  the  history  of  an  immortal  spirit  a 
deed  of  doing  so  strange  I 

For  once  it  was  not  so  here.  There  was  a 
conscious  contiguity  of  another  world.  Every 
impenitent  spectator  would  have  felt  as  would 
the  condemned  criminal  feel,  when  bidden  to 
amuse  himself  in  chaunting  the  equity  of  his 
impending  doom.  Or,  each  would  have  feared 
to  have  mingled  a  note  of  his  own  with  these 
of  a  lofty  hope,  as  if  the  jar  of  hypocrisy  would 
tempt  the  anger  of  Heaven. 

But  Maria — unhappy  Maria  !  feelingly  alive 
to  all  that  was  before  her,  hers  was  a  trial  that 
shook  alike  the  spirit  and  the  frame  it  inhabi- 
ted. 

'  She  could  not  weep 

"  The  very  source  of  tears  was  dry." 

Friend  and  acquaintance,  parents  and  sister, 
had  gone  and  left  her  ;  not  alone,  but  in  an 
ideal  world  of  living  imagery — every  feeling  of 
distress  personified  beforo  her.     ^he  heard,  re- 


144  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

ceding  in  its  distance,  the  sweet  warbling  of 
her  sister's  voice,  distinguished  by  its  rising 
and  its  mellowness.     Oh  was  it  thus,  when  at 

B ,  her  fancy  had  once  awakened  those 

sounds?     The   pleasure  of  past  anticipation 

was  changed  into  pain  : she  had  there  drank 

the  surface  of  her  cup — it  was  now  the  worm- 
wood and  the  gall.  Her  "  cherished  all  of  vi- 
sionary bliss"  had  fled  with  its  bright  light, 
leaving  her  bosom  cheerless  and  sad. 

The  musick  ceased.  Maria  gazed  with 
others,  at  the  guests  of  yonder  table.  At  one 
time,  she  felt  an  impulse  to  rise,  and  walk  alone 
to  that  spot :  and  the  pause  in  the  service  was 
favourable  to  her  purpose.  But  she  felt  spell 
bound  to  her  seat.  At  another,  the  whole  na- 
ture of  the  ordinance  was  changed  before  her. 
It  was  any  thing  but  a  festival  of  love.  It  was 
a  gloomy  display  of — she  knew  not  what,  but 
with  which  she  had  nothing  to  do.  It  was  not 
religion.  It  was  not  a  sacred  ordinance.  And 
at  another  moment  again,  order  succeeded  con- 
fusion :  And  she  thought  of  her  own  piety  as 
a  solitary  thing,  that  fitted  not  the  nature  of 
her  social  feelings,  and  that  decreed  against 
the  exercise  of  her  best  and  happiest  affections 

So  past  the  last  heavy  hour  of  that  mor- 
ning.    An  assistant  minister,  who  was  present, 


THE    DfVIDED    FAMILY.  145 

concluded  the  services,  with  a  practical  exhor- 
tation to  the  members  of  the  Church,  and  an 
address  to  the  spectators.  And  to  one,  at  least, 
it  was  a  period  of  partial  relief,  when  he  dis- 
iiiissed  the  assembly. 

Three  weeks  had  rolled  by,  when  a  visible 
alteration  in  the  state  of  Maria's  health  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  the  family.  Her  natural 
colour  had  forsaken  her  cheek,  save  when 
flushed  by  a  momentary  excitement.  She  car- 
ried within  her  a  leaven  of  melancholy  which 
mixed  itself  with  every  thing,  and  imparted  the 
appearance  of  painful  eftort  to  the  smile  of 
pleasantry,  or  to  the  light  look  she  would  have 
assumed  under  the  little  incidents  that  might 
have  rallied  her  spirits. 

She  had  more  than  once  introduced  the  sub- 
ject nearest  her  heart ;  but  mildly  and  tender- 
ly as  her  arguments  were  met,  they  were  easily 
repelled  by  a  reasoning  for  which  she  was  not 
prepared  ;  or,  perhaps,  by  a  skill  in  controversy 
vsuperior  to  her  own — and  it  was  of  very  little, 
importance  which.  She  was  silent  in  her  de- 
feat, but  not  convinced.  She  was  persuaded 
that  others  could  answer  her  father  if  she  could 
not.  There  were  successful  weapons  in  the 
hands  of  some,  if  she  did  not  possess  them. 

And  nothing  less  than  the  defeat  of  Mr.  Wythr 

19 


146  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

himself,  would  have  weakened  her  convictions, 
or  loosened  her  tenacity  of  opinion.  And  yet 
there  was  no  jiride  of  sentiment — no  inflexibility 
arising  from  irritated  feeling.  It  was  the  pow- 
er of  former  conviction  retaining  its  seat  in  the 
assurance  of  stability  :  And  its  eftects  perva- 
ded her  whole  moral  system.  She  felt  that  an 
alteration  in  her  views  would  re-modify  this : 
she  would  become  a  different  being  :  Her  fears 
and  her  enjoyments,  as  a  Christian,  would  be 
of  a  different  class  :  and  in  these  she  dreaded 
any  change — such  and  so  universal,  may  be  the 
influence  of  unessential  views.  Thousands 
consider  the  religion  of  others  in  its  bearings 
on  the  heart  and  the  mind,  as  widely  distinct 
from  their  own,  while  the  grand  principles  of 
both  are  admitted  to  be  the  same.  There  is 
something  of  the  familiar,  but  undefinable,  sen- 
sation of  home,  Avliich  belongs  to  religious 
opinions  rather  than  to  any  other,  and  which 
attaches  a  strangeness  to  all  that  is  not  identi- 
cally the  same.  Man,  too,  is  the  creature  of 
impressions.  The  least  shade  of  prejudice 
alters  the  aspect  of  other's  piety.  Although 
the  reality  of  that  piety  may  not  be  questioned, 
yet  is  there  something  in  its  complexion  which 
renders  it  foreign  :  it  may  be  the  property  of  a 
neighbour    and,  a  friend,  but   it  is  not  home 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  l47 

It  may  have  its  conveniences  and  its  a<lvanta- 
l^es,  but  it  wants  something  to  reconcile  iis  to 
the  abandonment  of  our  present  habitudes  of 
feeHng  and  thought.  It  is  hence,  for  the  most  part 
that  our  jealousies  are  awakened  when  a  small 
principle  of  our  belief  has  been  rudely  grasp- 
ed by  one  of  another  creed.  It  was  not  the 
value  of  the  principle  in  itself:  it  was  that  it 
composed  a  part  of  our  intelleotual  familiari- 
ties ;  and  an  attempt  to  divest  us  of  it  is  recog- 
nized as  an  invasion  of  our  domicile.  And  it 
is  the  same  partiality  which  renders  us  unwil- 
ling to  compromise  in  aught  that  relates  to  it. 

The  relatives  of  Maria  Morley  saw  the  de- 
clining state  of  her  health  with  a  concern  far 
deeper  than  her  own.  While  she  thought  but 
little  of  it,  and  scarcely  felt  that  the  ravages  of 
disease  were  slowly,  though  gently,  stealing 
life  away,  they  marked  the  weekly  change  with 
thonghts  of  melancholy  augury.  Her  desire 
that  her  aunt  might  be  invited  to  pay  them  a 
visit,  made  with  a  seriousness  that  looked  fore- 
boding to  3Ir.  Morley,  was  freely  granted.  A 
few  days  afterwards,  this  invitation  was  an- 
swered by  the  personal  presence  of  Miss  JVares. 
She  beheld  the  change  in  her  neice  with  as- 
tonishment and  grief.  But  she  could  hardly  re- 
press the  pleasure  which  she  received,  on  find 


14S  THE    DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

ing  that  all  her  apprehensions  of  Maria's  sta- 
bility, in  "  following  the  Lord  fully,"  were  en- 
tirely groundless ;  a  cheering  intelligence,  w  hich 
was  connnunicated  to  her  on  the  first  night  af" 
ter  her  arrival.  A  renewed,  and  more  implicit 
confidence  existed  between  the  two.  Their 
evening  walks,   and  their   retired  closettings, 

were  frequent. The  house  of  the  Morleys 

was  overshadow^ed  by  the  distrust  of  a  divided 

FAMILY. 

Previously  to  the  arrival  of  Miss  Nares,  Ma- 
ria had  no  confidential  bosom  in  which  she 
could  repose  the  secret  of  her  soul.  And  that 
secret,  as  such,  was  preying,  like  the  canker- 
worm,  on  the  place  of  its  confinement.  To 
Clara,  formerly  her  sole  associate,  she  had  fre- 
quently attempted  to  unburden  her  mind,  but 
the  attempt  was  always  unsatisfactory  and  vain. 
And  it  was  now  a  relief  that  she  could  share 
the  weight  of  her  cares  w  ith  one  who  under- 
stood them  as  well  as  herself. 

If  it  be  true  that  a  restricted  confidence  res- 
trains the  action  of  love,  and  that  this  restraint, 
in  its  turn,  passes  as  an  entering  w  edge  into 
the  breach,  it  is  likewise  true  that  the  w  ith- 
drawer  himself  feels  the  influence  of  his  own 
withdrawal.  Clara  saw  and  felt  the  first  of 
^ese  truths  with  sadness.     Maria  was  not  en- 


THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY.  14^ 

tirely  insensible  to  tlie  second.  But  her  habit 
of  communicating  with  her  Aunt,  on  a  su])jcct 
which  ramified  through  all  the  little  afVairs  of 
her  life,  was  now  rendering  that  lady  her  ex- 
clusive counsellor,  and  gradually  weaning  her 
from  the  society  of  her  sister.  Rind,  tender, 
and  affectionate  to  all  around  her,  she  still  dis- 
covered a  want  of  reciprocity  in  all  but  her 
Aunt.  She  loved :  but  her  love  wanted  that 
congeniality  of  character  without  which  it  w as 
imperfect ;  and  which  a  difference  in  religiou* 
sentiment  unhappily  precluded. 

A  stranger  would  not  have  discovered  the 
least  dissonance  in  the  household.  He  would 
have  seen  that  mutual  exchange  of  good  offi- 
ces which  makes  up  so  much  of  a  Christian 
courtesy.  But  one  who  knew  well  that  family, 
years  gone  by,  and  who  entered  into  its  fami- 
liarities again,  could  not  fail  to  understand  that 
a  new  moral  dynasty  was  begun  within  it. 

All  this  3Iiss  Nares  deprecated,  in  common 
with  the  rest.  '  But  if  it  were  an  evil  insepe- 
rable  from  the  faith  of  Maria, — connected  as 
that  faith  was,  w  ith  its  necessary  rules  of  ex- 
clusiveness,  and  strong  as  it  was  in  a  mind  of 
such  active  materials,  it  was  a  less  evil  than 
violating  the  dictates  of  conscience.'  Satis- 
fied, therefore,  that,  it  was  a  dispensation   ot 


150  THE   DIVIDED    FAmLY. 

Providence,  she  inculcated  in  her  niece — what 
she  exercised  in  herself — resignation  to  the 
Divine  will. 

One  evening  when  Maria  had  retired  early 
after  the  fatigue  of  a  walk,  her  absence  from 
the  domestick  circle  rendered  her  health  the 
topic  of  conversation  ;  which,  by  a  very  natu- 
ral transition  led  to  the  state  of  her  mind.  Mr. 
Morley  expressed  his  regret  on  account  of  a 
pensiveness  that  seemed  deep-seated,  and  that 
%as  spreading  its  effects  through  the  rest  of  the 
family.  Miss  Nares  acquiesced :  while  she 
"  considered  it  one  of  those  trials  to  which 
God  subjects  the  best  of  his  people  on  earth, 
in  order  to  prepare  them  for  a  state  of  purer 
existence." 

"  We  ought  to  see  the  hand  of  God,"  said 
Mr.  M.  "  in  all  the  circumstances  of  our  lives. 
But  there  are  certainly  some  sorrows  which 
bear  harder  upon  us  than  others  :  and  among 
these  we  may  class  such  as  have  been  brought 
upon  us  by  our  imprudence  ;  or  such  as  have 
arisen  from  an  unnecessary  cause  in  the  in- 
discretion of  others." 

Miss  Nares  saw  an  equivoque  in  the  lau- 
ffuaffe  of  her  brother-in-law. 

lie  explained.  But  he  did  not  conjjeal  hi$ 
opinion,  "  that  a  difference  in  religious  views 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  151 

was,  in  the  present  instance,  the  destroyer  of 
domestic  peace." 

This,  too,  Miss  Nares  was  prepared  to  ad- 
mit ;  and  she  could  cordially  lament  both  the 
cause  and  the  effect.  "  It  had  been  her  earn- 
est prayer  that  the  Great  Head  of  the  Church 
would  prevent  the  latter  by  removing  the  for- 
mer." 

"  But  do  we  not  make  the  difficulty  our- 
selves I" — he  asked.  "  That  Maria  should  dif- 
fer from  us  in  what  we  all  consider  secondary 
things,  is  of  no  importance.  I  have  no  strong- 
prepossessions  respecting  the  manner  of  a  rite  in 
the  Church  of  God  :  but  when  any  system  re- 
quires an  absolute  separation  among  his  own 
people,  I  cannot  but  believe  it  fraught  with 
mischief  Avhich  a  pure  Gospel  will  not  bring. 
I  should  believe  thus  under  any  circumstances  ; 
but  when  I  rue  the  consequences  to  such  an 
extent  under  my  own  roof,  I  find  my  charity 
somewhat  drooping,  in  respect  to  the  inventors 
or  abettors  of  a  scheme  which  seems  expressly 
designed  to  strike  at  the  root  of  charity." 

"  is  that  Christian  V 

'-  It  is  not  so,  I  admit.  But  I  leave  you  to 
judge  what  effect  is  likely  to  be  produced  upon 
my  mind  by  the  conduct  of  a  denomination 
who  acknowledge  their  ])elief  in   mv   sinceritv. 


152  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

and  yet  refuse  to  unite  with  me  in  the  com- 
memoration of  the  Redeemer's  death.  An 
act  which  designates  a  want  of  Christian  love 
in  the  most  plain  and  pointed  manner,  is  one 
which,  of  all  others,  is  most  likely  to  destroy 
all  charity  in  the  bosom  rejected." 

"  You  mistake  us  in  two  things,  Brother. 
We  believe  you  to  be  Clnistians ;  but  we  can- 
not believe  there  is  a  complete  sincerity  in  ex- 
amining so  important  a  question,  or  you  would 
arrive  at  the  same  conclusion  with  us  ;  and 
while  this  defect  exists,  how  could  we  harmo- 
nize together.  Moreover,  it  is  not  fair  to  say 
that  we  want  charity  for  you.  We  believe 
there  are  degrees  of  sincerity,  and  that  preju- 
dice, or  pride,  too  often  qualifies  the  virtue." 

"  I  must  confess,  then,  that  my  dilemma  is 
"  more  serious  than  ever.  Your  conclusion 
"  that  all  would  agree  with  you,  if  they  fairly 
"  examined  the  subject,  implies  an  infallibility 
"  on  your  own  part  as  positive  as  that  of  the 
*'  Church  of  Rome ;  and  it  leads,  so  far  as  it 
"  ffoes  to  a  similar  exclusiveness  :  so  true  is 
"  it  that  infallibility  and  exclusiveness  go  hand 
"  in  hand.  Besides,  who  is  to  be  the  judge  of 
"  the  degree  of  sincerity,  while  both  parties 
''  think  they  see  with  clearness,  and  each  is 
"  persuaded  that  he  is  a  prayerful  inquirer  1 
"  This  very  discrepancy  teaches  me  the  duty 


TilE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  1^ 

*'  of  Christian  love.  And  even  supposing  the 
"  two  parties  equal  in  numbers,  in  learning, 
"  and  in  piety,  how  can  I  escape  the  inference 
"  of  the  fallibility  of  both  I  But  this  is  only 
♦'  a  part  of  my  difficulty  ;  and  it  is  the  smallest 
"  part.  If  you  deny  that,  as  a  denomination, 
"  you  want  charity,  why  refuse  to  commune 
*'  with  us  1  If  it  be  said  that  such  a  refusal  is 
"  a  small  matter — of  no  material  importance — 
"  then  am  I  surprised  that  it  is  given,  consi- 
*'  derinff  the  wide  breach  it  makes  between 
"  you  and  others.  Yet  you  cannot  con- 
*'  sider  it  of  small  importance,  because  the  act 
"  of  communion  is  a  bond  of  amity.  We  all  know 
"  well  that  the  primitive  Christians  recognized 
"  it  as  such.  There  w^ero  ])uttwo  reasons  why 
"  the  Apostles  excluded  any  who  had  ever  been 
*'  acknowledged  Christians — heresy,  and  im- 
"  morality  of  life.  To  be  consistent  with  them 
*'  we  must  be  confined  within  the  same  limits. 
"  In  this,  the  Church  of  Rome  is  consistent : 
"  We  are  deemed  heretics ;  and  whether  the 
"  charge  is  just  or  not,  the  plea  is  a  scriptural 
"  one.  Expediency  out  of  the  question,  the 
"  act  of  separating  the  Children  of  God>  on 
"  account  of  such  a  difference  of  opinion  as 
"  ours,  is  unauthorized  by  the  w  ords  of  Holy 
"  Writ.     1  view  the  degree  of  separation  as  of 

^0 


154  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

"  more  magnitutle  than  our  doctrinal  diffc- 
"  rence — or  rather  our  difterence  respecting 
"  the  manner  of  a  rite." 

"  Of  more  magnitude  V 

"  Yes  ;  even  of  morcr  For  in  the  first  place, 
"  it  is  not  exphcitly  told  us  how  that  rite  is  to 
'•  be  performed,  or  there  would  not  be  a  ques- 
•^^  tion  on  the  subject.  But  even  if  we  were 
"  distinctly  informed  of  that  manner,  a  depar- 
"  ture  from  it  is  neither  immorality  or  heresy, 
"  while  the  ordinance  itself  is  not  denied.  In 
"  the  second  place,  it  is  the  sacrifice  of  a  prin- 
"  ciple  of  infinite  importance  for  one  that  is 
«  finite." 

"  Indeed  !  what  can  that  be  V 

"  The  principle  of  unity.  The  Redeemer 
"  inculcated  nothing  with  more  earnestness 
"  than  this  ;  and  he  founds  upon  it  the  success 
*'  of  the  Gospel.  In  his  affecting  intercessory 
"  prayer,  in  behalf  of  his  disciples  and  future 
*'  believers,  he  annexes  this  reason  for  his  peti- 
"  tion — '  that  they  may  be  one  even  as  we  are 
"  one,'  and  that,  for  the  following  end — '  that 
"  the  world  may  believe  that  thou  has  sent  me.' 
"  The  Apostles  after  their  master,  took  every 
*'  possible  pains  to  maintain  unity  in  the  Church. 
"  To  this  end,  they  w  ere  disposed  to  bear  and 
•"  forbear.     They  yielded  to  the  weakness  of 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY!  155 

•^  Others,  wherever  they  could  lawfully  do  so. — 
**  What  an  admirable  example  liave  we  of  this 
"  in  the  question  of  meats  and  holy  days  ! 

•*  But  not  communin*^  together  is,  surely,  no 
"  evidence  of  a  want  of  proper  unity." 

"  Then  I  hardly  know  what  is.  The  com- 
"  mimion  was  the  visible  line  between  the  visi- 
"  ble  Church  and  the  world  :  and  they  alone, 
•*  I  have  said  were  put  without  it,  who  were 
"  deemed  unworthy  in  doctrine  or  practice. 
"  And  this  excommunication — to  preserve  con- 
"  sistency — was  followed  by  a  refusal  of  ordi- 
•*  nary  fellowship." 

"  But  we  do  not  refuse  to  unite  with  you  in 
"  prayer  ;  or  to  ask  your  own  ministers  to  oc- 
"  cupy  our  pulpits." 

"  Therein  is  the  greater  inconsistency.  The 
-'  man  whom  I  could  desire  to  be  the  mouth  of 
"  the  people,"  must  be  one  with  whom  I  could 
•  sit  at  the  Redeemer's  table  ;  whatever  dis- 
"  qualifies  him  for  the  one,  in  his  religious  views, 
''  should  render  him  unfit  for  the  other." 

"  But  when  we  say,  we  do  not  moan  any 
•'  thing  uncharitable,  our  declaration  ought  to 
be  believed." 

'*  There  is  certainly  something  so  abhorrent 
"  in  the  term  uncharitable,  that  every  one  dis- 
•'  claims  it.     And  hence  I  am  told  that  manv 


106  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

"  ill  your  denomination  profess  to  regret  the 
"  exclusiveness  of  the  sect :  That  even  some 
"  of  its  teachers  do  so :  but  still  we  see  no  al- 
"  terfttion.  Here  inconsistency  multiplies.  To 
"  say  that  we  mean  one  thing,  and  yet  to  prac- 
"  tice  another — to  avow  Christian  love,  and 
"  yet  refuse  admission  to  its  emblems — is  ccr- 
"  tainly  going  a  step  further.  Now,  where  two 
*'  individuals,  whom  nature  or  circumstances 
"  have  rendered  intimate,  part  in  religious  be- 
"  lief,  there  is  at  least  a  faint  line  of  demarka- 
"  tion  between  them  :  but  it  may  be  too  faint 
"  to  do  harm.  Yet  say  what  we  will,  there 
"  can  be  no  unmingled  feelhig  of  charity  bcr 
"  tvt^een  those  who  render  that  line  more  dis- 
"  tinct  by  the  mutual  exclusion  of  each  other 
<*  from  communion.  An  essential  difference  is 
"  felt.  There  is  a  want  of  something  in  the 
"  heart.  There  is  an  ungodly  jealousy : — some- 
"  thing — something  is  wrong.  It  is  in  commu- 
<^  nities  as  with  individuals  :  A  want  of  confi- 
"  dence  destroys  unity.  And  that  especially 
'•  when  all  connexion  is  refused  in  the  very 
"  place  where  the  concord  of  Heaven  is  typi- 
"  fied,  and  prejudices  are  supposed  to  be  merged 
'•  in  affection.  I  would  leave  this  to  the  con- 
*'  science  and  candour  of  those  concerned  :  i 
"  would   appeal  to  their  very  sensations — to 


THE   DA'IDEP   FAMILY.  157 

"  their  own  experience  of  feeling-.  The  two 
"  beliefs,  in  every  such  instance,  must  create  a 
"  -consciousness  of  a  very  wide  dillercncc,  not 
"  in  doctrine  alone,  but  in  a  repulsive  con- 
"  trast." 

Whatever  the  worth  of  these  remarks,  3Iiss 
Nares  thought  they  were  not  without  force. 
She  found  herself  on  the  defensive,  and  at- 
tempted to  change  the  field  of  debate.  But 
her  mortification  was  increased  on  finding  that 
3Ir.  Morley  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
doctrinal  question ;  and  still  more  so  on  observing 
that  he  left  it  to  her  own  convictions — that  he 
was  willing  to  admit  the  justice  of  cither  side — 
and  that  he  treated  with  sang  froid,  a  matter 
which  she  had  regarded  as  momentous.  She 
thought,  too,  that  there  was  a  dash  of  acidity 
in  his  manner.  But  here  she  was  mistaken. 
His  mind  w  as  indeed  distressed,  but  it  was  not 
soured.  It  was  in  a  state  of  mournful  expec- 
tation ;  but  it  was  incapable  of  confounding 
persons  and  opinions  ;  or  of  attributing  dishon- 
ourable motives  to  one  whom  he  believed  to  be 
a  sincere  Christian.     A  master-poet  has  said, 

"  When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies 
"  But  in  battalions." 

It  was  so  here.  Unsatisfactory  explanations 
are  the  preludes  to  open  ruptures  :  or  to  some- 


158  THE   DIVIDED   FA3IILY. 

thing  that  is  kindred  to  them.  Little  misun- 
derstandings that  might  be  forgotten  in  social 
life,  take  shape  and  magnitude  when  they  are 
brought  to  no  good  purpose  palpably  before 
the  parties.  Such,  too,  is  the  effect  of  many 
religious  discussions.  A  tacit  understanding 
that  each  may  retain  his  own  views,  and  a  mu- 
tual agreement  to  differ,  are,  generally  more 
politic  than  easy. 

The  two  parties  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Morley 
made  this  discovery  more  frequently  than  was 
consistent  with  their  happiness.  Miss  N.  had 
often  resolved  to  drop  forever  the  subject  odT 
their  differences.  Then  again  something  new 
would  occur  to  her  mind  :  something  that  was 
unanswerable.  Yet  every  effort  to  convince 
was  met  by  an  almost  provoking  calmness,  and 
ended  with  very  little  variety  of  effect.  The 
truce  which  succeeded  was  like  that  under  a 
Carthagenian  flag.  Seriously  as  it  might  have 
been  made,  its  stability  consisted  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  hour  ;  it  vanished  when  that  hour 
was  gone.  It  was  forgotten  under  new  temp- 
tations, which  new  hopes  of  a  conquest  created. 
Unhappily  such  truces  serve  rather  to  alienate 
than  to  unite.  Even  on  neutral  ground.  Miss 
N.  would  pick  up  something  which  she  mistook 
for  a  gauntlet ;  or  discover  what  she  regarded 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  159 

as  a  weak  point  in  the  forces  of  her  polemical 
adversary,  that  invited  an  attack. 

In  this  state  of  things,  the  long  absent  son 
and  brother  returned.  To  the  hearts  of  his 
parent,  this  event  was  a  happy  relief  To  Clara 
it  was  not  less  so.  She  had  long  been  weary 
of  the  discussions  which  almost  every  day  re- 
newed. Her  spirits  were  jaded  by  the  restless- 
ness occasioned  by  fears  of  renewed  hostilities 
from  every  little  incident.  She  was  tired  of 
watching  with  apprehension,  terms  or  expres- 
sions which  might  lead  to  some  new  inuendo, 
and  thence  to  polemics  again.  Her  brother's 
return  would  furnish  new  and  lasting  topicks. 

Maria's  expectations  were  not  dissimilar. — 
If  Thurston  had  a  favourite  sister,  it  was  her- 
self; and  she  indulged  a  vivid  expectation  that 
some  good  or  other  would  result  from  his  re- 
accession  to  the  family. 

But  there  were  hopes  with  all  of  a  more  lofty 
character.  He  might  partake  of  the  influence 
of  that  work  of  grace  in  which  the  others  had 
shared  :  and  while  the  salvation  of  his  own  soul 
was  secured,  his  superiour  talents  would  become 
tributary  to  the  cause  of  the  Redeemer. 

Thurston  Morley  was  one  whom  his  associ- 
ates usually  dignified  by  the  appellation  of  high- 
minded.     Ho  was  quick  in  his  perceptions  of 


160  THE   DIVIDEO   FAMILY. 

right  and  wrong ;  and  tinctured  a  little  with 
what  is  called  a  chivalrous  spirit.  Hasty,  and 
often  precipitate  in  his  conclusions  and  feelings, 
he  -»vas  impetuous  and  calm,  volatile,  moody, 
and  serious  in  the  same  hour.  In  addition  to 
all  this  there  was  a  sprinkle  of  sarcasm  in  his 
disposition,  which  sometimes  gave  pain  where 
he  never  intended  it,  and  produced  many  a  mo- 
ment of  mortification  and  self-reproach.  But 
then  he  was  affectionate  in  temper  and  ardent 
in  his  personal  attachments. 

The  part  which  Thurston  was  destined  to  act 
under  the  paternal  roof,  was  one  that  brought 
into  play  by  turns,  every  characteristic  that 
nature  and  education  had  given  him.  He  was 
shocked  beyond  the  power  of  concealment  by 
the  faded  looks  of  Maria.  He  wept  when  he 
saw  the  feebleness  of  her  attempts  to  partici- 
pate  in  the  cheerfulness  of  his  own  mind  ;  and 
when  he  beheld  the  languor  which  invariably 
succeeded  them.  The  alteration  which  he  dis- 
covered in  the  religious  views  of  the  family^ 
gave  him  neither  pleasure  nor  pain  ;  for  there 
was  nothing  morose,  nothing  of  a  studied  se- 
riousness, to  provoke  a  repulsive  feeling.  He 
bowed  at  the  domestic  altar  with  a  respect, 
which,  if  it  proceeded  not  from  the  heart,  was 
prompted  by  an  external  reverence  for  the  ser- 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  I6l 

vice.  He  accompanied  the  family  to  the  pub»f 
lick  religious  exercises  which  were  held  so  fre- 
quently during  this  remarkable  period.  His 
fears  were  partially  aroused  for  his  own  future 
fate,  when  he  observed  the  wonderful  change 
which  nitmy  of  his  former  companions  had  un- 
dergone. He  heard  in  silence,  and  witliout 
offence,  the  expostidations  of  one  or  two  who 
professed  a  deep  interest  in  his  spiritual  wel- 
fare. 

All  this  was  only  a  three  day's  history.  There 
was  no  deep-wrought  conviction  of  sin :  no  just 
idea  of  the  corruption  of  his  heart.  He  was 
uneasy ;  but  his  uneasiness  arose  from  no  dis- 
tinct perception  of  the  truth.  He  was  disquiet- 
ed :  but  it  was  a  disquietude  which  he  would 
have  shaken  off. 

Alas  how  false  may  be  our  expectations  here  i 

The   work  of  grace   is   one    of    Sovereignty ; 

and  the  hand  that  achieves  it  must  be  divine. 

We  may  count  on  the  impressibility  of  a  friei^d. 

We  may  justly  anticipate  that  certain  means 

will  reach  his  sensibilities.     But  beyond  this, 

our  prognostics  are  of  little  value.     The  most 

ready  susceptibility  may  belong  to  one  who, 

with  all  that  is  inviting  before  him,  may  stand 

aloof   from    the   kingdom    of    Heaven.      An 

awakened  soul  is  indeed  a  spectacle  of  interest, 

21 


1.62  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

because  we  suspect  an  infinite  and  eternal  cri- 
sis. But  it  intlicates  nothing  of  certain  issue — - 
nothing  on  which  we  may  build  an  assurance 
of  good.  There  is  all  that  may  give  life  to 
hope  or  fear  :  but  there  is  no  more. 

Oh  how  little  do  we  understand  the  details 
of  a  revival !  How  unfairly  do  we  estimate 
much  that  makes  up  its  brief  but  comprehen- 
sive history  ! — The  searing  of  the  conscience^ 
the  hardening  of  the  heart — the  gathering 
blindness  in  the  midst  of  spiritual  light,  or  the 
uplifting  of  the  veil  that  hides  eternity— the 
proud  but  secret  opposition  of  a  rebellious  spi- 
rit— the  powerful  play  of  passion — the  conten- 
tion of  principlips  embattling  in  the  soul — the 
surrender  of  the  aftections,  or  the  misgivings 
in  withholding  them — the  murmuring  of  des- 
pair, or  the  dawn  of  faith — the  stubborn  incre- 
dulity, or  the  conflict  of  doubts — either  is  in- 
teresting in  its  individual  exhibition  ;  but  when 
the  whole  are  brought  together  within  the  range 
of  the  eye,  they  give  the  only  fair  developement 
of  human  nature  that  can  be  furnished  on  earth. 

To  see,  and  yet  be  insensible  to  even  part  of 
this  is  hardly  possible.  And  the  parents  and 
sisters  of  Thurston  judged  rightly  when  they 
anticipated  a  pause  in  his  mind,  when  he  be- 
held the  changes  around  him.    But  the  past 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  1(53 

experience  of  neither  led  to  an  apprehension 
which  might  be  as  reasonable  as  hope  in  his 
?3€half.  They  little  imagined  that  the  rock  on 
which  their  expectations  were  to  beat  was  one 
in  their  own  household. 

Tiiurston's  seriousness  was  suspected  ;  but 
neither  its  nature  nor  its  degree  was  exactly 
known,  when,  by  an  accidental  circumstance, 
the  dissonance  of  religious  opinion  among  the 
members  of  the  family  came  to  his  knowledge, 
despite  of  Mr.  Morley's  injunctions  and  pains 
to  conceal  it.  Here  was  a  new  and  interesting 
object  of  attention.  It  afforded  him  relief  from 
all  that  vagueness  of  unhappy  thought,  in  which 
his  mind  had  been  for  a  season  suspended. 

There  is  certainly  no  cavil  taken  from  the 
armoury  of  Satan  so  powerful  in  the  heart  of 
the  partially  awakened  sinner,  as  that  of  a  doc- 
trinal difference  among  professors  of  religion — 
saving  alone  the  collisions  of  personal  preju- 
dice :  especially  where  that  difference  is  brought 
into  visible  activity  in  the  group  of  his  own 
associations.  And  the  unhappy  zeal  of  par- 
tizans  in  the  midst  of  a  revival  has  withered 
many  a  fair  prospect  for  the  soul,  and  left  many 
a  stain  on  a  cause  that  was  avowedly  dear. 

Thurston  determined  to  examine  a  subject 
which  appeared  of  such  material  interest  to 


164  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

his  friends.  Hq  did  not  see,  and  he  hardly 
thought,  that  such  an  engagement  was  not  only 
foreign  from  the  great  question  of  his  soul's 
safety,  but  in  the  present  state  of  his  mind,  in- 
imical to  salutary  reflection.  Another  difficul- 
ty occurred  in  his  path  :  He  could  not  disco- 
ver how  the  subject  in  which  he  was  now  en- 
gaged could  be  necessarily  connected  with  a 
separation  of  interests  at  the  Communion. 
This  perplexed  and  biased  his  understanding. 
He  began  to  deprecate  the  consequences  of  a 
system  that  w  as  '  alienating  relatives  and  placing 
discord  on  the  seat  of  harmony.'  Ai^d  the  bit- 
ter temper  of  prejudice  put  to  flight  every 
thought  of  his  own  danger,  and  banished  even 
the  semblance  of  serious  impressions.  The 
descent  was  rapid ;  for  the  descent  in  such  a 
case  is  usually  rapid.  From  one  who  had  taken 
the  posture  of  an  Inquirer,  he  was  transformed 
into  the  veriest  Pyhronist. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Maria's  declining  health 
furnished  him  an  argument,  to  which  he  had 
no  right,  but  which  he  wielded  to  the  severe 
vexation  of  his  Aunt.  His  affection  for  his 
sister  increased  as  it  was  by  her  circumstances, 
gave  edge  to  a  raillery  which  Miss  Nares  could 
not  repel  by  admonition  or  warning.  At  one 
time,  he  would  enter  the  parlour  with  a  coun- 


THE    lUVIDED    FAMILY.  U)ij 

tenamce  of  half-conoealeil  gravity — ask  a  few 
questions  and  without  a  change  of  visage,  in- 
fuse the  severest  ribaldry  into  the  whole  sub- 
ject. At  another,  he  would  step  with  good 
earnest  into  the  lists  with  his  Aunt ;  who  al- 
ways concluded  him,  at  the  end  of  the  debate, 
"  a  more  hardened  sinner  than  ever."  One  hour, 
he  wished  the  whole  family  would  agree  on 
either  side — "  immersed,  if  they  pleased,  fa- 
thom deep,  and  cemented  by  soaking."  Anoth- 
er, he  w^ould  relax  the  muscles  of  Maria's  face, 
to  the  great  annoyance  of  Miss  N.  by  some 
serio-comic  sally. 

Yet  all  this  was  not  the  venting  of  spleen  : 
nor  did  it  arise,  entirely  from  a  love  of  irony  or 
ridicule.  Much  of  it  was  designed  to  restore 
the  unanimity  of  the  family  :  and  he  fancied 
first  fruits  of  success  whenever  he  dissipated 
for  a  moment,  the  sad  composure  of  his  sister. 

If  habit  do  not  always  reconcile  us  to  our 
situation  in  life,  it  diminishes  the  weight  of  our 
cares,  or  renders  us  less  restive  under  it.  A 
few  months  past,  had  the  book  of  the  future 
been  opened  to  Mr.  31.  and  his  family,  n  sight 
of  its  dark  page  would  have  been  appalling  in 
the  extreme.  As  it  was,  a  faint  hope  of  some- 
thing better  to  come  alleviated  a  present.  And 
when  disappointment  succeeded  these  rain-bow 


166  THE   mVlBEJ)   FAMILY. 

lights  they  would  go  out  in  one  part  of  the  ho- 
rizon to  appear  in  another.  vSuch,  and  so  con- 
stant is  that  tenacity  of  hope  that  begins  with 
the  first  hour  of  youthful  imaginings,  and  keeps 
reason  in  her  strength  against  the  assaults  of 
despair.  It  is  sometimes  well  when  affliction 
comes,  that  the  spirit  is  partially  broken  to 
bend  the  neck  to  the  yoke  and  the  shoulders 
to  the  burden,  in  a  half-forgetfulness  of  past 
happiness.  It  is  well  that  when  the  lights  have 
been  extinguished  one  after  another,  memory 
caimot  always  renew  the  whole ; — a  small  num- 
ber only  are,  at  a  time,  within  reach  of  her  call. 
But  it  is  more  than  well  when,  as  the  grasp  on 
earth  is  loosening,  that  on  Heaven  is  firmer  : 
when  as  the  world  darkens,  we  approach  to  the 
light  of  a  spiritual  sun. — In  some  good  degree 
it  was  so  with  the  Morley's,  save  a  single  ex- 
ception ;  but  that  exception  could  raise  the  winds 
of  a  storm  at  pleasure. 

Thurston's  respect  for  his  father  usually 
restrained  him  from  any  of  those  out-break- 
ings which  might  have  been  apprehended  from 
an  excited  irritability.  Still  he  could  not  for- 
give Miss  Nares.  Regarding  her  as  the  great 
instrument  of  all  the  evil  he  saw,  and  of  all  he 
ever  expected  to  see,  he  overlooked  every  good 
quality  of  her  heart,  misinterpreted  her  motives, 


THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY.  1G7 

and  seized  every  opportunity  of  cmbavvassing 
her  feelings.  "  Slie  did  enough,  at  first," — said 
he  to  his  father, — "when  she  filled  Maria's 
"  head  with  these  idle  notions.  If  she  had  not 
'•'  followed  her  pupil  here,  all  would  have  been 
"  well  enough  still.  A  proselyte  to  a  new  sys- 
''  tern  is  always  enthusiastic  :  but  time  might 
"  have  cooled  that  ardour,  as  time  commonly 
'  does.  I  never  knew  a  young  free-mason  who 
"  was  not  an  enthusiast  on  his  entering  the 
*'  lodge  :  nor  one  whom  I  have  not  found  be- 
"  fore  many  months  as  lukewarm  as  myself." 

"  My  son  will  recollect  that  the  invitation  to 
^^  his  Aunt  was  given  with  his  father's  consent." 

Thurston  bowed.  He  was  convinced  of  the 
duty  of  filial  acquiescence.  But  he  was  not 
satisfied  with  the  prudence  of  the  measure 
which  had  produced  his  animadversion.  The 
repulse,  though  gently  given,  drove  him  to 
another  ground.  "  I  must  confess," — said  he, — 
"  I  do  not  know  a  single  objection  to  *'  Chris- 
"  tianity  so  strong  as  that  of  the  bigotry  which. 
"  many  of  its  advocates  evince.  It  is  the  very 
"  temper  that  would  light  the  fires  of  an  Auto 
*'  de  Fc.  It  wants  but  the  power  to  be  un- 
"  merciful  to  the  body ;  it  is  so  already  to  the 
"  heart.  I  had  rather  become  an  inmate  of 
"^  La  Trappe,  or  live  where  every  one  blesses 


16^  THfi    DIVIDED    FAIvnLY. 

"  my  expectations  when  I  burn  a  sous  candie 
"  to  our  good  lady  of ." 

"  Stay  Thurston  ;  this  is  severe,  undeserved- 
"  ly  severe.  You  are  trying  and  condemning 
"  one  agent  for  the  crimes  of  another.  We 
*'  are  to  judge  men  by  their  works.  Let  us  do 
*'  the  same  to  Christianity.  But  let  us  not  pass 
"  sentence  on  that  Heavenly  Agent  for  sins 
"  which  she  herself  reproves,  and  of  which  slie 
"  was  never  guilty  herself." 

"  But  is  it  not  true," — rejoined  the  son, — 
"  that  this  diversity  of  sects  is  the  very  soul  of 
"  bigotry  I  and  as  the  natural  consequence  of 
"  religious  freedom,  is  it  not  an  evidence  of  a 
"  defect  in  Christianity  1" 

"  JVot  at  all :  neither  premises,  nor  conclu- 
"  sion  can  be  admitted.  It  is  true  that  reli- 
*'  gious  freedom  will  lead  to  a  variety  of  sects. 
"But  what  then?  Wherever  religious  free- 
"  dom  exists,  piety  and  morality  are  most  dif- 
*'  fusive.  Our  own  country  is  a  fair  example. 
"  Where  difference  of  opinion  is  iolerated,  as 
"  in  Great  Britain,  the  same  truth  holds  pro- 
"  portionably  good.  The  converse  of  this  ap- 
"  plies  to  those  oountries  in  which  an  unquali- 
''  lied  establishment  exists ;  and  that  in  exact 
"  proportion  to  the  strictness  with  which  such 
"  an  establishment  is  guarded.  Moreover,  an 
'<  allowed  diversity  of  sects  is  so  far  from  being 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY,  169 

**  the  soul  of  bigotry,  that  it  is  the  best  security 
*'  against  its  encroachments.  The  history  of 
*'  the  terrible  Inquisition,  to  which  you  have 
**  adverted,  is  full  to  this  point ;  it  wants  no 
**  auxiliary  of  proof." 

"  But,  sir,  to  return  to  our  country, — can  wc 
"  find  a  better  instance  of  bigotry  than  in  the 
"  denomination  with  which  we  first  started  V 

"  If  it  be  so,  the  argument  is  still  misplaced. 
"  Any  denomination  which  excludes  from  coni- 
^'  munion  those  whom  they  allow  to  be  exem- 
"  plary  and  evangelical  Christians,  so  far  in- 
"  fringes  liberty  of  conscience,  opposes  free- 
"  dom  of  opinion,  and  raises  the  standard  of 
"  religious  despotism.  But  these  are  not  le- 
"  gitimate  consequences  of  true  piety.  They 
"  are  not  even  a  corruption  of  the  truth.  They 
"  arise  from  a  human  principle  with  which  the 
"  truth  has  nothing  to  do." 

"  To  alter  my  posture,  then, — how  is  it  that 
"  wherever  zeal  for  Christianity  exists,  there 
"  always  exists  with  it  the  pride  or  domination 
"  of  piety.  The  history  of  the  Church  is  writ- 
"  ten  with  blood :  And,  excepting  in  primitive 
"  days,  it  was  the  bigotry  of  professing  Chris- 
**  tians  that  shed  it.  Even  where  it  is  admit- 
"  ted  that  the  greatest  purity  of  doctrines  ex- 
"  isted,  persecution  has  been  scarcely  less  cruel 


170  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

'•  to  opposite  opinions.  Let  me  instance  the 
"  Lollards  and  Puritans  in  their  day.  Among 
'*  the  first,  how  many  were  eager  for  havoc : 
'•  how  many  held  opinions  incompatihle  with 
"  the  welfare  of  society.  The  second,  what- 
"  ever  they  were  in  the  heginning,  became  op- 
''  pressors  as  soon  as  power  changed  hand^ : 
"  some  of  their  published  ordinances  cannot 
"  be  read  without  pity  for  their  delusion,  their 
"  narrow-mindedness,  and  even  their  cruelty. 
"  Take  other  parties  : — Cranmer — the  mild  and 
"  amiable  Cranmer — how  shall  we  reconcile 
"  the  deeds  of  his  day  with  a  disposition  which 
"  nature  rendered  tender,  without  saying  that 
"  religion  rendered  it  cruel  I  And  even  Fene- 
"  Ion  himself  has  not  departed  with  a  name  un- 
"  sullied  with  suspicion." 

"  What  does  all  this  prove  1  that  our  religion 
"  is  sanguinary,  or  even  imperfect  ^  Did  a 
"  single  precept  in  the  Word  of  God  justify 
"  this  unhallowed  conduct  or  temper  I  not  at 
"  all.  The  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  these 
"  people  lived,  will  account  for  much  of  their 
"  bitterness  of  hostility.  A  hatred  of  all  that 
"  belonged  to  the  opposing  side  led  to  extremes, 
"  and  even  to  contradictions  of  dealing.  Un- 
"  due  devotedness  to  certain  tenets  absorbed 
'•  their  thoughts,  and  left  no  room  for  some  of 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  171 

"  the  jnactical  precepts  of  the  Gospel.  This 
*  A\  ill  be  ever  the  case  where  theory  ami  prac- 
''  tice  are  kept  distinct  and  apart,  or  where 
"  rites  and  ceremonies  are  unduly  regarded. 
"  Some  Christian  virtue  or  other  will  be  neg- 
"  lected.  There  may  be  piety  ;  but  it  will  be 
"  piety  imperfect ;  and  if  you  please,  sometimes 
**  suspicious.  It  is  a  melancholy  example  of 
"  the  perverseness  of  our  nature,  when  we  see, 
"  as  we  so  often  do,  the  pertinacious  adherence 
'^  of  a  good  man  to. a  matter  of  secondary  va- 
'*  lue  ;  observe  how  it  magnifies  in  liis  sight — 
•'  how  he  grasps  the  straw  with  the  tension  of 
"  gigantic  mind — exhausts  his  very  energies  on 
''  it — and  even  takes  by  it  the  very  measure- 
''  ment  of  fundamental  principles  of  practice. 
•'  Poor  human  weakness  is  ever  in  danger  of 
''  betraying  the  cause  it  has  espoused,  llu- 
**  man  pride  mars  the  work  that  it  touches. 
"  Human  sight  overlooks  much  that  is  most 
"  essential  and  most  lovely.  Human  partiali- 
'•  ties  warp  the  judgement.  And  wounded  hu- 
•'  man  vanity  vents  its  revenge  on  things  that 
*•  are  divine.  I  feel  humbled  when  I  hear  of 
'•  the  failings  of  the  best  of  men.  I5nt  the 
'<  pages  of  the  Bible  have  taught  me  to  look 
'*  for  inconsistencies,  or  at  least  to  expect  them. 
•'  Nor  i>  it  less  a   subject  of  humiliation,  and 


172  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

"  holy  dependence  when  I  see  the  most  palpa  - 
"  ble  errors  embraced  by  men  whom  I  antici- 
'*  pate  meeting  in  Heaven.  The  writings  of 
''  Fenelon,  Massilon  and  Bourdaloue  have  fiU- 
"  ed  many  an  hour  with  pleasure  mingled  with 
"  surprize :  but  those  of  the  manly,  vigorous 
"  Pascal  have  often  left  me  confounded  that  an 
''  intellect  so  discriminating  and  powerful,  could 
"  cling  to  traditions,  superstitions,  and  whims, 
"  from  which  I  shall  have  imagined  the  weak- 
"  est  mind  would  recoil.  Yet,  do  I  not  observe 
"  the  same  thing  where  religion  is  out  of  the 
"  question — even  in  the  moral  sciences, — not 
"  to  say  sometimes  in  the  physical  1" 

"  But  why,  if  the  Gospel  were  designed  for 
"  all  men,  should  it  give  rise  to  such  a  division 
•'  of  sects  I  Why  does  it  not  promote  unity 
"  among  its  followers  "!" 

"  Your  question  is  easily  answered.  If  the 
Gospel  produced  all  the  effects  you  demand 
from  it,  then  must  it  not  only  pass  beyond  its 
contemplated  design,  but  it  would  require  some 
other  economy  of  moral  government  than  that 
in  which  we  live.  It  must  suppose  a  change  in 
the  relationship  in  which  we  stand  to  God. 
As  it  i^,  no  system  of  religion  could  have  been 
given  which  all  would  understand  alike  in  its 
diverKified  particulars.     While  human  nature 


THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY.  173 

remains  as  it  is,  the  different  constructions  of 
our  minds  must  influence  their  decisions  in 
smaller  points.  Our  judgements  are  warped 
by  inclination  or  taste.  Our  education,  and 
the  circumstances  under  which  we  live,  will 
produce  their  corresponding  effects.  The  views 
of  others,  even  without  a  conscious  consent, 
possess  the^r  influence  over  us.  We  see  the 
evidence  of  all  this  in  the  fact,  that,  not  un- 
frequently,  the  very  plainest  practical  injunc- 
tions are  misunderstood  or  perverted.  And 
matters  that  are  not  clearly  revealed,  and  are 
not,  therefore,  of  essential  practical  value,  arc 
sometimes  the  very  ones  which  are  assumed  as 
most  clearly  defined,  and  of  most  material  im- 
portance ;  and  are  tlius  made  the  very  line  of 
division.  But  then,  to  prevent  all  this,  you  require 
the  operation  of  a  miracle :  a  miracle  which  shall 
change  the  texture  of  the  human  mind  and  con- 
form it  to  a  universal  similarity — which  shall 
make  the  bias  of  our  thoughts  the  same  ;  and 
compel  man  to  think  aright.  But  what  would 
be  the  consequence  of  such  a  miracle  \  not  less 
than  the  destruction  of  our  free-agency— the 
removal  of  our  accountability  to  God.  It  is 
worthy  of  remark,  too,  that  the  Word  of  God 
anticipates  these  variations,  instead  of  pre-sup- 
posing  a  power  to  prevent  them.     They  existed 


174  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

in  the  days  of  the  Apostles  before  the  Canon 
of  Scripture  was  completed ;  and  certain  du- 
ties respecting  them  were  enjoined." 

Here  ^r.  M.  opened  the  Bible  and  read  part 
of  the  14th  Chapter  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Ro- 
mans. He  considered  the  differences  of  opi- 
nion in  that  Church,  which  called  for  the  ex- 
postulations of  the  inspired  penman,  as  much 
resembling  some  of  the  distinctions  of  sects  in 
the  present  day.  "  Preferences,"  he  conceiv- 
ed, "  were  not  prohibited ;  though  exclusive 
preferences  were  certainly  so  ;  and  so  too,  was 
any  thing  else  that  militated  against  the  exer- 
cise of  a  mutual  charity." — From  this  he  pass- 
ed to  the  third  chapter  of  the  first  Epistle  to 
the  Corinthians.  "  Here,"— said  he,  "  appears 
a  distinct  lesson  on  this  subject.  The  founda- 
tion on  which  those  who  have  a  saving  hope 
shall  build  is  Jesus  Christ :  the  gold,  silver,  and 
precious  stones  are  the  fundamental  truths  of 
Christianity.  The  hay,  icood  and  stuhhle,  are 
the  inventions  of  man.  All  of  them  may  be 
built  on  the  foundation  that  shall  abide.  The 
former  will  stand  the  ordeal  of  fire.  The  lat- 
ter will  perish.  The  foundation  will  remain 
in  either  case ;  but  the  superstructure  of  the 
errorist  shall  be  destroyed  ; — "  he  shall  suffer 
loss  hut  himself  shall  be  saved^^ 


rHE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  175 

"  I  would  go  even  further," — said  Mr.  Mor- 
ley.  "  These  difterences,  I  am  persuaded,  arc 
beneficial,  upon  the  whole.  They  keep  atten- 
tion awake  and  active.  They  preserve  the 
more  important  truths  in  a  purer  state.  Tlie 
action  and  re-action  of  Christian  communities 
upon  one  another — where  a  proper  temper  is 
preserved — prevent  both  an  inertness  of  feel- 
ing and  a  stagnation  of  principle.  They  lead 
to  the  extension  of  Christianity.  They  furnish 
a  test  of  charity  ;  and,  by  bringing  that  grace 
into  frequent  exercise,  they  render  it  healthy 
and  vigorous.  I  cannot  deny  that  the  motives 
for  zeal  in  propagating  divine  truth  may  be, 
and  often  arc  unhallowed.  And  where  they 
are  so,  they  will  not  pass  the  scrutinizing  eye 
of  God,  unnoted.  Still,  out  of  this  very  evil 
He  who  "  maketh  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise 
him,"  will  extract  good  for  his  own  kingdom. 
I  have  thought  that  the  Apostle  alludes  to  some 
such  thought  as  this  when  he  says — "  Some 
indeed  preach  Christ  even  of  envy  and  strife  ; 
and  some  also  of  good  will.  The  one  preacii 
Christ  of  contention,  not  sincerely — but  the 
other  of  love." — What  then  I  notwithstanding 
every  way,  whether  in  pretence  or  in  truth, 
Christ  is  preached  ;  and  I  therein  do  rejoico.- 
yea,  and  will  rejoice." 


176  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY, 

"  This  relieves  but  part  of  the  difficulty,"— 
said  Thurston,  who  felt  somewhat  shaken  by 
the  sober  reasoning  of  his  father,  and  disposed  ^ 
to  shift  his  position  still  more.  "  The  passage 
which  you  read  last  night  previous  to  family 
worship,  relating  to  the  plainnesss  of  the  way 
of  life  to  the  fool  and  way-faring  men,  contra- 
dicts facts  which  we  see  every  day.  Two  read- 
ers of  the  Bible  may  adopt  sentiments  so  much 
at  variance  that  no  fellowship  can  exist  between 
them." 

"  I  have  already  partly  accounted  for  this" — 
vsaid  the  respondent.  "  But  J  will  go  further. 
Strength  of  understanding,  or  a  superior  intel- 
lect, is  not  the  best  alembick  o^  spiritual  truth. 
The  Scribes  and  Pharisees  we|*e  more  highly 
gifted  in  this  respect,  than  the  felvoured  Twelve. 
And  yet  they  comprehended  the  Saviour's  doc- 
trines no  better  than  these  illiterate  men.  The 
things  of  God  may  be  hidden  from  the  wise 
and  great  while  they  are  revealed  unto  babes 
in  knowledge  and  understanding.  And  it  is  a 
display  of  sovereignty  when  they  are  so.  Mat- 
ters which  belong  to  the  soul's  best  interest  are 
offered  on  the  same  terms  to  all.  This  would 
not  be  so  if  a  greater  degree  of  natural  gifts 
gave  one  man  an  advantage  over  another.  It 
is  the  disposition  of  the  heart  which  guarantees 
the  failure  or  success  of  au  inquirer.     Man 


THK    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  177 

must  be  sincere  before  he  may  hope  for  suc- 
cess in  holy  things.  He  must  second  his  in- 
quiries with  a  practice  corresponding  with  his 
knowledge.  It  may  be  true  that  infidelity  fans 
the  passions  :  ])ut  it  was  the  passions  that  gave 
birth  to  infidelity.  The  child  may  support  the 
parent ;  but  it  was  the  parent  who  brought  the 
child  into  being.  The  same  truth  applies  to 
fundamental  errors  in  religion  ;  and,  in  both 
cases,  it  is  vapid  boasting  to  triumph  in  the 
conclusions  of  a  strong  and  unsanctified  mind, 
while  it  is  folly  to  gather  objections  from  their 
ignorance  of  experimental  truth." 

"  Is  there  not  something  uncharitable  in  such 
an  imputation  I  Does  it  not  imply  a  want  of 
integrity  in  some  whose  honesty  we  have  ndf 
right  to  suspect  f 

"  If  so,  we  niTist  charge  the  fault  upon  the 
Author  of  the  Bible,  for  the  imputation  is  from 
him.  It  is  a  melancholy  evidence  of  human 
depravity  that  we  are  more  disposed  to  act  with 
dishonesty  towards  our  Maker  than  towards  our. 
fellows  :  and  the  fact  itself  originates  in  a  na- 
tural incredulity  of  Him  whom  we  do  not  see, 
with  whom  we  have  no  personal  communica- 
tion, and  of  whom  we  form  the  most  fanciful 
conceptions.  There  is  a  secret  agency  betweei. 
God  and  his  creature  wliich  in  a  future  revela 


178  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

tion  will  tell  fearful  secrets  now  kept  in  tl.^ 
darkness  of  the  bosom.  But  after  all  there  is 
something-  in  the  very  nature  of  heresy  which 
indicates  a  lamentable  depravity  in  its  cherish- 
er." 

"  What  is  that  r    . 

"  It  is  that  the  heretic  rejects  the  very  prin- 
ciples which  mortify  tlie  pride  of  the  natural 
mind,  demand  personal  sacrifices  and  inflict 
pain.  If  the  difference  of  opinion  which  exists 
had  no  reference  to  what  our  nature  hates,  I 
should  be  more  willing  to  seat  the  understand- 
ing as  umpire,  and  there  would  be  less  suspi- 
cion of  an  integrity  which  it  is  painful  to  im- 
peach. There  may  be  what  are  called  ami- 
nbleness  and  morality,  in  the  errorist ;  and  he 
may  feel  confident  of  his  own  sincerity.  We 
see  these  in  the  moral  man  whom  grace  has 
not  renewed  :  but  no  sooner  has  he  "  come  to 
himself,"  in  answer  to  the  calls  of  the  spirit, 
than  he  discovers  that  beneath  all  his  preten- 
sions to  sincerity  and  candour,  there  was  a  self- 
deception  which  he  had  never  suspected,  and 
a  haughty  disposition  to  rebellion  under  the 
livery  of  allegiance." 

These  were  rather  closer  quarters  than 
Thurston  had  sought.  "  I  cannot  see," — said 
he,  why  God   permits   heresies   to   disturl)  a 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  171) 

Church  which  he  desires  to  protect  and  to  che- 
rish !" 

"  You  must  have  ah'cady  seen  that  this  is  as 
natural  an  evil  in  the  present  state  of  man  as 
any  other.  You  have  seen  that  it  Mould  re- 
quire a  perpetual  miracle  to  prevent  it.  But 
the  truth  is,  even  this  evil  has  its  advantages. 
The  Christian  here  is  in  a  state  of  probation. 
Every  thing  denotes  a  condition  of  trial.  Every 
thing  is  designed  to  purify  and  establish  the 
heirs  of  glory.  Keeping  this  in  sight,  let  inc 
refer  you  to  higher  authority  than  my  own. 
An  inspired  writer  has  written — "  there  must 
be  also,  heresies  among  you;"  and  he  assigns 
the  reason  himself, — "  that  they  which  are  ap- 
proved may  be  made  manifest  among  you." 
j\ow  this  is  effected  in  several  ways,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  following :  The  visible  Church  con- 
sisting of  chaff  and  wheat,  the  tendency  of 
heresies  is  to  winnow  the  chaff  from  the  wheat ; 
Where  the  true  doctrines  of  Christ  are  oppos- 
ed in  heart,  by  a  false  professor,  there  will  be 
an  attraction  in  those  who  hold  more  congenial 
views — an  attraction  which  will  draw  them  off 
from  a  body  they  might  otherwise  disturb.  1 
might  add,  too,  that  heresies  are  to  the  Church 
what  afflictions  arc  to  the  Christian  ;  they  lead 
to  consideration  ;  they  institute  self-inquiry.'' 


180  THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY 

**  According  to  this  application  of  scripture,"— 
interrupted  Thurston, — "  every  thing  seems  to 
be  fore-named  and  pre-written." 

Mr.  Morley's  brow  lowered.  "  The  feeling 
of  that  utterance  is  unworthy  of  my  son,"  said 
be.  "  And  yet  as  a  sneer  by  no  means  adroit 
you  have  spoken  of  the  most  solemn  truths. 
Yes  ;  every  thing  is  fore-named.  There  is  not 
a  feeling  of  the  unconverted  sinner,  not  an  ex- 
cuse, not  an  art,  not  a  cavil,  which  is  not  di- 
rectly or  indirectly  mentioned  in  the  book  by 
which  we  shall  be  judged.  Our  own  views 
may  appear  peculiar  to  ourselves,  and  they 
generally  do  so  ;  and  so  may  our  condition  in 
the  sight  of  God.  We  may  rest  in  confidence 
on  the  singularity  of  our  case  as  a  ground  of 
mercy  ;  but  we  shall  one  day  see  our  whole  ex- 
perience written  in  sun-beams  on  these  pages  ; 
and  we  may  be  confounded  at  a  voluntary 
blindness  as  deceptive  to  ourselves  as  it  was 
presumptuous  before  God." 

Mr.  Morley  spoke  this  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
tenderness  and  reproof.  His  voice  fell  as  he 
drew  to  the  close  of  the  sentence  :  and  it  was 
accompanied  with  a  look  that  reached  where 
Thurston  dared  not  gaze  himself. 

We  know  not  what  might  have  been  the  ef- 
fect of  a  remark  adapted  to  lay  hold  of  his  bet- 


TUE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  1>^1 

ter  feelings  under  other  circumstances.  It  is 
certain  that  he  was  startled  now.  But  no 
sooner  had  he  left  the  apartment  than  hy  an 
easy  association  he  thought  of  his  disputes  with 
his  Aunt :  It  was  a  theme  which  with  its  cor- 
respondencies was  uppermost  in  his  mind.  And 
while  he  did  so,  it  was  with  a  secret  exultation 
that  Miss  Nares  was  not  present  at  his  recent 
defeat :  and  in  that  exultation  he  forgot  his  per- 
sonal concern  in  the  late  conversation. 

The  two  parents  and  Clara  remained  in  the 
parlour.  *'  I  entertain  some  hope," — said  the 
last^ — that  Thurston's  mind  may  yet  be  impress- 
ed. He  was  certainly  not  insensible  to  your 
expostulation." 

"  We  should  have  greater  reason  to  do  so," — 
said  Mr.  31. — "  if  his  mind  were  less  occupied 
in  controversy." 

It  was  admitted  by  all  that  his  present  pro- 
pensity was  highly  unfavourable  to  serious 
thought.  And  yet  there  was  no  remedy  for 
the  evil.  He  was  not  likely  to  relinquish  it, 
while  it  subserved  the  double  purpose  of  amu- 
sing himself  and  of  tantalizing  his  Aunt. 

At  no  later  period  than  the  succeeding  day, 
a  new  freak  called  for  all  the  patience  of  3Iiss 
IVares. 


182  THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

She  was  sitting  near  a  window  with  the  two 
sisters.  Mr.  M.  was  reclining  on  the  sofa  with 
a  book.  The  door,  which  hung  ajar,  screened 
him  from  the  sight  of  his  son,  who  was  enter- 
ing the  apartment  with  a  countenance  Hghted 
up  by  some  happy  discovery — "  Aunt,  I  have 
been  to  Jerusalem  !" 

"  What  does  he  mean  1"  said  Maria. 

"  He  will  explain  himself," — replied  Clara, — 
''  it  is  not  always  easy  to  construe  his  meaning." 

"  Well  then,  I'll  explain  myself," — said  the 
brother.  "  I  have  read  the  whole  history  of 
that  city  and  its  inhabitants,  down  to  the  pre- 
sent day.  I  have  found  there  all  manner  of 
deaths  and  murders,  except  drowning  :  do  you 
understand  me  now  V 

"  Indeed  I  do  not.  As  you  sometimes  say, 
I  am  no  CEdippus." 

"  Well  then,  I  will  be  clearer.  I  read  an 
account  of  a  man  there  who  sent  his  son  all 
the  way  to  Jericho  to  be  drowned." 

<^  Who  ^— what  for  V 

"  I  don't  know  what  for,  but  the  worthy  man's 
name  was  Herod." 

"  I  cannot  really  see  the  value  of  the  intel- 
ligence you  have  brought  from  the  Holy  Land." 

"  But  Aunt  can." 


THE    DIVIDED    FAMILY.  183 

Miss  Nares  did.  Or  at  least  she  saw  enough 
to  discover  a  blow  at  her  favourite  tenets. 
There  w  as  one  way  to  parry  it ;  and  there  is 
none  easier  for  a  disputant.  She  assumed  a 
contrary  position  :  "  there  must  have  been  wa- 
ter some  feet  deep  at  Jerusalem.*' 

"  Well  then  tlie  Jews  were  amphibious  an- 
imals while  there,  for  no  one  ever  died  in  the 
w  ater.  You  know  I  proved  the  other  day  that 
the  strongest  man  was  not  Sampson,  but  Joan- 
nes de  Dooper,  as  the  Dutch  Bible  calls  him  ; 
for,  besides  compressing  time,  he  lifted  up  and 
down  thousands  of  people  in  a  day,  without 
intermission  of  speaking." 

"  Ridicule  is  no  test  of  truth." 

"  Good !  I  like  quotations.  Til  give  you 
another  discovery,  in  return." 

"  Reserve  the  benefit  of  your  discoveries  for 
yourself — said  Mr.  Morley  who  rose  from  the 
sofa  to  the  surprise  and  mortification  of  the 
youth.  Thurston  was  nettled,  lie  had  read 
that  morning  in  a  writer  of  his  Aunt's  denomi- 
nation, a  positive  proof  that  when  the  rite 
which  was  the  subject  of  their  frequent  disputes 
was  performed  by,  "  primitive  Christians,"  in 
the  way  she  deemed  scriptural,  the  subject  of 
the  ordinance  was  always  naked.  This  was 
demonstration  to  him  that  the  practice  could 


184  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

not  have  originated  in  purest  times,  violatingy 
as  it  did,  the  laws  of  decency  and  decorum. 
'  To  lose  this  argument  just  at  the  time,  when 
his  Aunt  was  getting  into  a  feeze,  was  vexa- 
tious :  just  at  the  time,  too,  when  he  had  caught 
Maria's  attention  by  something  new.  And 
when  he  was  about  to  shew  that  an  ordinance 
which  may  be  altered  to  suit  publick  sentiment, 
in  after  days,  could  have  had  no  essential  man- 
ner prescribed  for  it.' '  It  was  the  loss  of  a 

triumph,'  thought  Thurston.  '  It  was  the  pro- 
tection of  peace,'  thought  his  father.  xlnd 
neither  was  satisfied  with  the  conduct  of  the 
other. 

It  was  no  easy  matter  for  Mr.  Morley  to  dis- 
cover the  exact  line  of  duty  in  regard  to  his 
son.  It  was  indeed  plainly  necessary  to  pro- 
hibit the  practice  of  disputation  in  his  famil}^ 
And  this  he  did.  But  it  was  a  kind  of  sullen 
peace  that  followed.  One  of  the  parties,  at 
least,  thought  it  unnecessarj^  "  It  was  an  in- 
fringement of  his  natural  liberty.  The  com- 
plexion of  the  family  appeared  altered.  Every 
thing  was  sadly  different  from  former  years  : 
and  all  this  is  the  eflect  of  religion."  3Ir.  Blor- 
ley  was  again  obliged  to  reason.  And  Thurs- 
ton looked  around  for  new  objections. 

Oh  that  the  caviller  would  remember  the 
quality   of  the  weapon  that   he    handles  !     It 


THE    DIVIDED    FAI^riLY  ISCi 

may  not  strike  deep, — but  it  seldom  fails  to  re- 
coil on  him  who  wields  it.  Nor  is  it  a  securi- 
ty to  the  caviller  that  he  means  not,  or  believes 
not  all  that  he  says.  There  is  danger  in  the 
stroke  that  is  meant  as  a  feint.  He  veho  is 
jealous  of  his  holy  truth  suffers  none  to  trifle 
with  it  unharmed. 

Such  was  the  experience  of  Thurston  Mor- 
ley.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  objections  which 
he  sometimes  advanced  to  his  father.  He  could 
have  refuted  them  all,  himself.  But  he  had 
now  acquired  a  greater  disrelish  of  spiritual 
things.  It  had  commenced  in  the  separate  in- 
terests of  the  family.  Prejudice  carried  on  its 
work  of  discoloration  ;  and  religion  lost  its  ex- 
ternal semblance  of  loveliness.  The  habit  of 
defending  error,  if  it  did  not  convince  him  in 
its  favour,  left  many  of  the  impressions  of  pre- 
judice which  error  produces.  The  habit  of 
cavilling  gave  an  obliquity  to  his  reasonings, 
even  when  alone.  He  became  an  active  fabri- 
cator of  suppositions.  His  natural  ingenious- 
ness  forsook  him. — So  true  is  it  that  falsehood, 
like  all  other  vice,  is  never  a  subject  of  dispor- 
ting with  impunity. — Every  hint  in  his  spiritual 
behalf  was  repelled.  The  hour  of  family  de- 
votion was,  of  all  others,  most  unwelcome.- 

24 


|8P  TUE    DIVIDED    FAMILY. 

The  Revival  ceased.  And  the  dews  of  Hea- 
ven which  had  fallen  so  copiously  on  the  vil- 
lage of left  Thurston  Morley  unmoistened 

among  the  crowd. 

In  the  meanwhile  a  change  was  going  on  un- 
der that  roof,  of  a  very  different  nature.  The 
lire,  whose  effects  were  so  visihle  before,  burnt 
with  a  violence  as  it  consumed  the  last  of  all 
that  was  once  buoyant  in  the  bosom  of  Maria, 
Lights  and  shadows  were  no  longer  alternates, 
A  dense  darkness  was  within  and  around  her  > 
and  it  overcast  all  who  approached  her.  Yet 
unknown  to  them,  her  faculties  v/ere  chained, 
prisoner-like,  to  a  single  thought.  They  only 
knew  that  she  appeared  loosened  from  earth — 
on  the  ready  spring  to  enter  eternity. 

Who  has  not  witnessed  the  power  of  natural 
affection  growing  in  its  strength  before  disso- 
lution has  parted  its  object  from  time  1  Who 
has  not  marked  the  collecting  of  sympathy,  its 
yearnings,  and  its  unwearying  care,  in  such  sea- 
son as  this  I"     ' 

The  approaching  departure  of  one  so  dear 
was  a  vortex  that  swallowed  the  thoughts  ot 
all.  Divisions  and  differences  were  nearly  for- 
gotten— save  by  one. 

AH  hopes  of  Maria's  recovery  were  aban- 
doned, reluctantly,  but  fully.     The  distinguish- 


THE   DIVIDED    FAMILY.  187 

able  stops  in  her  disorder  were  all  taken  but 
the  last.  Her  evening  walk  had  been  forsa- 
ken— her  place  at  the  family  board  was  vacant  : 
the  couch  of  her  chamber  was  left — and  her 
bed  had  now  only  to  relinquish  her  in  turn,  to 
the  tenement  of  the  dead. 

By  her  own  desire,  the  family  altar  had  been 
removed  to  her  room.  She  felt  that  her  social 
worshipping  on  earth  was  nearly  over  ;  and  her 
heart  expressed  its  breathing  with  renewed  fer- 
vour as  she  followed  the  pious  leadings  of  her 
father,  or  the  dulcet  harmony  of  her  sister's 
voice. 

It  was  one  evening  after  such  a  season  as 
this,  that  Maria  beckoned  the  family  to  the  side 
of  her  bed.  The  summons  was  unusual ;  and 
it  was  alarming.  This  she  saw  and  reheved. 
"  I  am  not  dying, — said  she,  taking  the  hand 
of  Clara, — I  am  not  even  conscious  of  the  ap- 
proach of  death.  I  am  feeble,  but  I  have  no 
suffering.  One  care  is  an  inmate  of  my  heart, 
and  I  can  retain  it  there  no  longer.  I  believe 
I  have  been  wrong.  I  have  contended  against 
the  sweetest  feelings  of  my  nature.  My  con- 
science has  been  treacherous  ;  or  I  have  rea- 
soned it  into  perversion.  The  only  boon  on 
earth  I  now  could  ask  caiuiot  be  grauted.  Had 
we  lived  together  we  should  have  met  at  the 


188  THE   DIVIDED   FAMILY. 

festival  of  love — why  have  I  suffered  this  part- 

ing  ?" And  she  sunk  exhausted  by  the  effort 

of  body  and  mind. 

A  terrible  struggle  shook  the  watchful  Thurs- 
ton :  it  broke  forth  in  a  vent  of  vehemence — 
*'  bigotry  is  gone — but  not  until  its  victim  was 
slain  f — and  with  a  rush  that  shook  the  apart- 
ment, and  a  deep  audible  groan  he  passed  from 
the  chamber. 

Mr.  Morley  followed  him.  The  son  repeat- 
ed his   expression,  with  a  stare  of  wildness. 

The  father  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment 

"  Thurston  ! you  are  wrong.     But   if  you 

were  not,  be  careful  that  bigotry  slay  not  a 
soul." 

It  was  tw»  days  after  this,  when  the  head  of 
the  family  had  opened  the  Bible  at  the  usual 
hour  of  devotion,  that  a  slight  sound  was  heard 

from  the    bed  of  the    patient Maria 

Morley  was  no  more  ! 

WILL  NOT  THE  SAINTS  COMMUNE  TOGETHER  IN 
HEAVEN  ? 


•^mm  A'^m^  ^mtimih^ 


"  Father  !" — said  a  low  tremulous  voice  at 
the  bedside  of  Mr.  Norton—"  Father,  I  feel 
distressed  for  you.  I  cannot  rest." — It  was  the 
hour  of  midnight.  And  the  speaker  who  inter- 
rupted the  slumbers  of  her  parent  was  a  sweet 
child  of  fourteen.  She  had  already  dropped  upon 
her  knees  at  the  side  of  her  confounded  father  : 
and,  before  his  efforts  at  self-recollection  were 
complete,  had  commenced  a  prayer  in  his  be- 
half He  listened  astonished  at  the  fluency  of 
the  young  petitioner.  It  was  a  new  and  unex- 
pected scene  ;  but  his  attention  was  chained  by 
the  language  of  simple  and  artless  eloquence. 
He  saw  and  heard  a  youthful  heir  of  Heaven 
pleading  with  an  emboldened  energy,  and  with 
all  the  simple  eloquence  of  nature,  for  the 
thoughtless  soul  of  her  parent.  He  shuddered 
at  the  simple  index  of  his  danger  :  and  without 
knowing  that  he  had  articulated  a  word,  he 
responded — "  God  grant  it,"  to  the  ''  amen"  of 
the  filial  suppliant.  "  Father" — she  said,  and 
she  would  have  spoken  again,  had  not  a  prohi- 


190  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

bition  from  one  she  was  accustomed  to  obey 
sealed  her  opening  lips.  "  Retire  my  child, — 
do  not  awaken  your  mother — retire  ;"  and  the 
door  opened  and  closed  again  with  as  little 
noise  as  the  light  footsteps  of  the  affectionate 
intruder.  I  know  not  how  far  a  spirit  of  ad- 
venture might  be  ascribed  to  this  unseasonable 
transaction,  by  those  who  understood  little  of 
the  anxiety  which  caused  it :  or  how  much  of  it 
would  be  attributed  to  the  fanciful  actings  of 
an  excited  imagination.  But  I  know  from  his 
own  confession,  that  the  slumbers  of  that  night 
were  lost  to  the  eyes  of  her  father,  and  that 
the  sternest  realities  remained  in  the  posture  of 
warning,  and  caught  his  sight  when  sounds  had 
ceased.  I  know  that  there  he  lay  struggling  to  es- 
cape from  a  conscience  that  swelled  to  giant's 
size,  and  giant's  strength,  shapeless  but  terrible. 
Thinking  was  agony:  to  cease  to  think  was  impos- 
sible. Still  there  was  nothing  defined,  nothing 
distinct,  in  the  character  of  his  thoughts.  The 
forms  of  past  crimes  stood  not  before  him  :  no 
distinct  charges  were  audible.  There  was  a 
confused  mass  of  terrors  ;  but  like  ten  thousand 
witnesses  accusing  without  order  or  rule,  it  was 
terrific  from  its  terrific  interminglings.  Oh, 
there  are  hours  when  sensitiveness  writlies  un- 
der agony  far  past  that  of  the  singlings  out  of 


THE    AGED    SIMVER.  191 

remorse  :  hours  wlien  the  clear  discrimination 
of  j^iiilt  would  be  an  alleviation  of  pain 

"  The  past  a  blank,  the  future  black 

With  glimpses  of  a  dreary  track ; 

Like  li-jhtning  on  the  desert  path 

When  midnig-ht  storms  are  gathering  wTath  :" 

hours,  when  the  very  companionship  of  accu- 
sing crime  were  comparatively  welcome  to  the 
solitary  and  defenceless  feelings.  But  then, 
their  reign  is  short.  The  spirit  disenthralls  it- 
self from  the  government  of  horror :  and  all 
that  was,  remained  only  as  the  memory  of  a 
fearful  dream — an  uncourted  review.  They 
are  only  as  the  mountains  left  by  the  traveller, 
misty  in  the  distance,  diminished,  indistinct, — 
until  they  are  lost  from  the  sight.  Their  ter- 
ror is  in  the  present :  they  extend  but  little  to 
the  future.  And  like  all  other  seasons  of  men- 
tal suffering,  they  leave  no  poi-manent  instruc- 
tion. So  it  was  here :  the  darkness  of  the 
mind  departed  with  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
and  kept  equal  pace  with  their  gradual  disper- 
sion.--— The  family  assembled  at  breakfast  as 
usual.  Four  daughters  and  a  son-in-law,  re- 
cently married,  witii  the  heads  of  the  house- 
hold, made  up  the  domestic  group.  iNo  parental 
prayer  had  opened  the  duties  of  the  morning  : 
and  no  parental  voice  craved  a  blessing  on  the 
well-spread  table.     Mr.   Norton  was  cheerful 


192  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

as  he  had  been  at  the  supper  hour.     He  recol- 
lected, and  told  some  amusing  incidents  of  the 
preceding  day  :  and  he  laughed  heartily  at  the 
ludicrous  folly  of  a  neighbour.     It  is  true  he 
hardly  spoke  to  Amelia  :  and  a  sagacious  spec- 
tator might  have  observed  even  a  careful  avert- 
ing of  his  face  from  the  direction  of  her  seat. 
But  then  Amelia  was  not  soriy  for  the  neglect. 
With  a  saddened  heart  she  shrunk  from  obser- 
vation ;  and  she  was  pleased  that  the  loquacity 
of  her  father  diverted  all  notice  from  her  own 
languor  and  depression  of  spirit.     The  circle 
broke  up.     The  gentlemen  left  the  house  for 
the  ordinary  business  of  the  day.     The  young 
ladies  entered  upon  their  usual  avocations   of 
domestic  duty.     Amelia  was  in  a  different  di- 
vision  of  engagement.       She   retired  to   her 
chamber  to  ruminate  over  the  past.     From  the 
hour  in  which  she  had  left  her  father  on  the 
last  night,  she  had  anticipated  the  next  meet- 
ing with  him,  in  a  state  of  mingled  doubt,  hope 
and  fear.     He  was  not  offended  then,  for  he 
had  spoken  mildly,   and  had  responded  to  her 
prayer.     Perhaps  he  might  even  be  thoughtful, 
for  God  could  soften  a  heart,  which  the  sun  of 
neglected  privilege  had  hardened.     And  it  is 
sometimes  sweet  to  think  what  God  can  do  : 
it  is  so  near  believing  what  He  ^cill  do.     But 


THE    AGED    SINXER.  l9JJ 

then  her  father  might  be  ashamed  of  the  weak- 
ness  of  that  memorable  hour ;  and  he  might 
look  on  her  with  a  frown  ;  and  she  could  bear 
any  thing  better  than  a  parental  frown.  80 
passed  the  lagging  hours  of  darkness.  Everj 
minute  brouglit  up  a  new  speculation,  or  re- 
newed an  old  one :  save  when  it  returned  to 
the  Giver  of  time,  laden  with  an  ejaculation 
for  the  soul  of  her  father.  But  now  all  that 
was  over,  and  the  meeting  for  whose  doubtful 
issue  she  had  trembled  was  likewise  past ;  but 
with  a  reversal  of  all  her  calculations.  Her 
father  did  7iot  meet  her  with  a  frown  :  he  took 
no  notice  of  her  entrance  into  the  parlour.  He 
was  not  thoughtful :  he  was  light  and  free  as 
air.  Was  the  scene  of  the  midnight  hour  real — 
or  was  it  visionary  1  Could  all  that  have  pass- 
ed in  her  sleep  ^  And  was  she  the  sole  actress, 
while  fancy  furnished  the  appendages  ? — There 
are  agencies  gone  by  with  all  of  us,  which  seem 
so  flatly  contradicted  by  unexpected  consequen- 
ces, that  we  look  on  them  as  fantastic  rather 
than  real.  It  was  so  with  Amelia  Norton. 
8he  could  not  easily  believe  it  possible,  that  no 
positive  efi'ect  should  result  from  her  visit  to 
the  chamber.  But  then  her  recollection  was 
vivid  and  faithful.  "  God  grant  it !"'  was  still 
fresh  in  her  ear.     She  had  caught  the  !ik/irp 


194  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

glance  of  her  father's  eye  with  tlie  dim  light  of 
tlie  taper  :  it  was  iinmoistened,  but  she  had 
never  seen  it  more  intent.  TVo ;  there  was  no 
delusion.  But  there  was  a  mystery,  dark,  per- 
plexing and  unaccountable  still.  Amelia  was 
not  too  young  for  all  these  reasons,  and  nature 
had  been  liberal  in  her  gift  of  a  strong  under- 
standing :  and  had  it  not  been  so,  who  has  not 
seen  how  the  powers  of  the  mind  may  strength- 
en, when  they  are  collected  to  play  on  a  point, 
around  which  the  aflections  of  the  heart  have 
rallied  T  Its  discrimination  is  then  clear,  and 
its  instructions  furbished. 

I  am  not  sure  that  a  zeal  for  the  conversion 
and  salvation  of  others  is  a  certain  evidence  of 
sincerity  in  religion,  unless  I  can  trace  it  to  a 
source  that  is  holy  and  pure.  Cut  I  am  very 
sure,  that  where  no  interest  is  aAvakened  in  the 
bosom  in  behalf  of  those  who  are  dear  there  is 
a  radical  defect  for  which  no  other  apparent 
virtues  can  atone.  There  is  a  generosity  and 
benevolence,  which  arises  like,  an  instinctive 
principle  in  the  bosom,  wholly  independent  of 
the  precepts  which  are  designed  to  encourage 
it.  It  is  too  expansive  for  seltish  enjoyment : 
it  is  too  liberal  for  solitary  pleasure.  Social  as 
the  harmony  and  bliss  of  Heaven,  it  would 
mingle  and  difluse  :  it  would  gather  around  it 


THE    AGED    Sl.NNER.  195 

a  iVatcrnity  of  its  own.  And  natural  ali'ection, 
powerful  as  mii^ht  have  been  its  exercise  under 
its  former  dominion,  receives  a  new  and  vigo- 
rous impulse  under  the  government  of  grace. 
"  Children  love  your  parents"  may  be  compa- 
ratively vague,  until  the  heart  becomes  precep- 
tive, and  the  ordinary  law  of  nature  is  enforced 
by  a  new  argument  and  feeling.  Or  where  an 
affectionate  temper  was  an  effective  command- 
ment before,  grace  gives  it  new  vigour,  in- 
tenseness  and  delicacy.  Piety  is  love.  Love 
caught  from  the  spirit  w  hich  expanded  over  the 
realm  of  a  fallen  world,  and  sought  the  redemp- 
tion of  its  suffering  creatures.  And  yet  it  has 
its  variations  too.  For  like  the  magnetic  nee- 
dle it  has  its  great  point  of  attraction.  It  vi- 
brates with  the  attractions  and  affinities  of 
kindred.  It  looks  to  God  and  to  the  good  that 
divine  mercy  would  achieve,  while  it  yields  to 
impulses  from  a  neighbouring  cognate.  And 
yet  the  figure  may  be  false.  I  am  willing  to 
relinquish  it.  There  must  be  something  right 
in  the  disposition  which  leads  us  first  to  desire 
the  salvation  of  a  relative,  before  we  have  far 
stretched  our  desire  to  those  of  common  claims 
on  our  sympathy.  It  must  be  something  direct 
between  us  and  the  great  object  of  attraction. 
It  cannot  be  uncongenial  with  the  feelings  of 


196  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

Him  towards  a  people  whom  he  had  loved  from 
tlie  beginning,  to  whom  its  heart  gave  its  first 
yearnings,  and  for  whom  he  said  to  the  iVpos- 
tles — "Beginning  at  Jerusalem." 

The  sisters  of  Amelia  had  been  members  oi 
the  visible  church  some  years  before  the  recent 
change  of  her  own  affections,  and  time  had 
been  when  they  understood  something  of  the 
desires  which  agitated  her  bosom.  But  that 
season  was  over ;  or  at  least  the  anxiety  which 
distinguished  it  was  gone.  They  did  indeed 
desire  the  spiritual  welfare  of  their  parent.  But 
that  interest  had  never  awakened  a  solicitude 
deep  as  that  of  Amelia.  And  who  does  not 
know  that  it  is  possible  ever  for  the  Christian 
to  remit  in  the  zeal  which  distinguished  the 
hours  of  his  "  first  love."  When  prayer  seem- 
ed to  have  been  unanswered,  and  all  personal 
efforts  have  failed,  discouragement  and  a  kind 
of  painless  despair  for  the  present  ensue  :  a 
vague  hope  for  an  indefinite  future,  and  a  com 
mitment  of  the  whole  matter,  Avith  diminished 
interest,  into  the  hands  of  God.  A  resignation 
not  unlikely  to  excite  self-llattery,  but  generaL 
ly  ominous  of  a  devotional  decline,  and  gene- 
rally characteristic  of  a  temper  fitful  in  its  sea- 
sons and  feelings. 


THi:    AGED    SINNEIi.  (97 

Tlieie  are  few  speculations,  in  wliicli  Chris- 
tians more  commonly  indulge  than  tiiat  oi  the 
probable  eflects  of  piety  on  a  given  character. 
How  often,  when  I  have  seen  the  generous  and 
aspiring  mind  expending  its  energies,  anil  was- 
ting its  fires  on  an  object  of  sense,  have  1 
thouglit  what  an  addition  there  w  ere  to  the  re- 
venue of  the  Redeemer's  glory,  if  that  ambi- 
tion ennobled  by  grace,  and  those  talents  hal- 
lowed by  a  sanctified  taste,  were  brought,  like 
the  gifts  of  an  eminent  Apostle,  to  the  altar  of 
gratitude  and  love !  And  where  I  have  seen 
an  inherent  patience  and  docility,  if  they  were 
leavened  by  a  principle  that  is  divine;  Or 
where  I  have  marked  a  steadiness  of  enter- 
prize — if  its  end  where  the  cause  of  Jehovah. 
And  when  such  speculations  have  failed,  how 
often  have  I  been  tempted  rather  to  ascribe  the 
failure  to  an  error  in  the  supposed  change,  than 
the  fallibility  of  cherished  hope  I  Grace  cor- 
rects the  natural  characteristics  ;  it  does  not 
de^-troy  them.  It  changes  the  channel  of  the 
passions,  it  never  arrests  their  How.  It  con- 
verts to  some  use,  and  tranforms  its  diversified 
gifts,  the  varieties  of  character  which  distin- 
guish the  intelligent  creation  :  and  who  candoid)} 
that  this  very  variety  will  distinguish  heaven, 
and  form  the  same  clmnijes  of  a  morul  harmo- 


198  THE    AGED    SINNEK. 

ny  which  give  a  charm  to  the  symphonies  of 
musick. 

There  was  a  naivete  in  the  character  of 
Ameha  Norton,  united  with  an  archness  which 
had  usually  rendered  her  the  Hfe  of  the  family  ; 
and  her  sisters  had  often  conversed  on  the  pro- 
bable effects  of  piety  on  a  mind  of  such  a 
mould.  x\.nd  now  that  the  truth  of  conjecture 
was  tested,  it  was  plain  that  they  were  not  far 
mistaken.  In  the  early  days  of  her  piety,  there 
was  a  beautiful  union  of  almost  infantile  ingen- 
uousness and  ardour.  It  reminded  of  the  com- 
prehensive and  touching  expression  of  the 
Apostle — "  new-bornbabes  :"  confiding, impres- 
sible, unsuspicious  and  credulous.  But  with 
all  there  was  a  solidity  which  reflection  seemed 
to  have  imparted,  and  a  gradual  vanishing  of 
those  lighter  materials,  which  gave  an  air  of 
weakness,  while  they  made  up  a  part  of  exter- 
nal embellishment.  It  was  not  the  first,  nor 
was  it  the  last  time  that  I  have  seen  the  beau 
tiful  process  of  a  new  appropriation  of  natural 
characteristics.  I  have  loved  to  behold  the 
substance  of  nature  wrought  into  a  workman- 
ship of  grace,  purified  by  the  process,  and 
sweetly  attempered  with  dispositions  of  hea- 
renly  origin  ;  until  there  stood  before  me  a 
transformed  being — a  spectacle  of  moral  re- 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  190 

surrection,  where  grossness  had  given  way  to 
spirituality,  and  a  celestial  light  was  rellected 
around.  Or  if  indeed  all  be  not  perfect,  and 
there  remain  excrescences  which  mar,  and  re- 
mind of  what  formerly  was  ;  charity — an  invo 
iuntary  charity,  covers  them  all,  and  a  holy 
hope  antedates  the  hour  when  neither  blemish 
nor  stain  shall  disfigure  the  workmanship  of 
God.  And  I  have  loved,  too,  to  watch  the 
slower  progress  of  a  sanctifying  power,  where 
less  ductile  and  less  pliable  materials  Avere  to 
be  the  subjects  of  change  ;  or  where  habit  had 
given  them  a  firmness,  and  ungoverned  pas 
sions  had  rendered  them  unbending  and  per- 
vers^.  And  it  was  instructive  to  see  how  the 
circumstances  of  life  were  meeted  out  by  om- 
niscient wisdom  to  fit  the  defects,  and  correct 
the  evils  of  fallen  humanity ;  how  affection 
broke  the  rocky  temper  ;  and  bereavement  snap- 
ped the  string  that  tied  the  heart  to  an  object 
of  earth,  and  fastened  it  again  to  Heaven  : 
how  disappointment  transferred  the  fixed  eye 
from  the  dust  on  which  it  rested,  to  the  great 
end  of  spiritual  creation  :  and  who  has  not 
watched,  or  seen,  or  felt  all  this,  in  the  myste- 
terious  agency  of  his  own  experience.  And 
who  has  not  thought  how  fitting  an  employ- 
ment in  a  higher  sphere,  it  shall  be,  w'hen   iu 


200  I  HE    AGKD    Sirs  NEK. 

the  review  of  our  probation  here  we  understand 
the  minute  management  and  dealing  of  the 
Holy  Spirit  on  earth,  Jesus  Christ  himself  being 
the  interpreter?  And  whom  has  not  a  holy 
resolution  invigorated,  when  in  vicissitude  or 
sorrow  he  has  remembered  the  language  of  the 
Interpreter,  "  what  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now 
but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter  ?" 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  measure  grades  in 
the  high  destiny  which  awaits  the  christian  ; 
yet  I  have  sometimes  thought  them  as  distin- 
guishable as  the  movements  of  a  traveller.  It 
is  not  always  possible  to  distinguish  the  light 
breaking  full  on  the  darkness  of  nature  in  obe- 
dience to  the  divine  fiat ;  and  yet  I  have  some- 
times seen  the  transition,  when  it  appeared  to 
break  like  a  blaze — and  it  was  so  in  the  in- 
stance of  Amelia  Norton.  From  the  first  hour 
of  new  hope  no  one  could  have  overlooked  the 
moral  change  which  shone  through  her  whole 
appearance,  diffused  itself  into,  and  even  dig- 
nified, her  manner.  There  was  vivacity,  but 
it  was  qualified  :  cheerfulness,  but  it  was  con- 
trolled :  confidence,  but  it  was  unobtrusive  : 
simplicity,  but  it  was  reflecting :  a  chnrncter 
which  art  had  not  sophisticated,  and  which  in- 
telligence and  piety  were  hereafter  to  complete. 
All  this  her  sisters  saw  and  appreciated.  The 
altered  Amelia  lost  none  of  that  claim  to  fa- 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  201 

vouritism,  which  she  had  unwittingly  estabhsh- 
ed.  But  not  one  of  the  family  had  entered  so 
deeply  into  the  familiarities  of  her  heart,  as  to 
discover  her  cherished  and  powerful  emotions 
in  behalf  of  her  father.  A  few  words  of  dis- 
quietude she  had  uttered  ;  and  they  wore  res- 
ponded with  a  faint  echo.  It  was  in  secret  she 
indulged  in  musings  which  led  to  a  heaviness 
of  heart — the  first  heaviness,  apart  from  con- 
viction of  sin,  she  had  ever  known.  And  it 
was  in  secret  she  indulged  a  sanguineness  of 
anticipation,  in  proportion  to  the  fervour  of  her 
prayers. 

A  good  old  writer  has  undertaken  to  answer 
the  question — "  how  may  we  certainly  know 
when  God  is  about  to  grant  our  prayer  ?"  I 
should  be  afraid  of  it.  I  should  think  it  ha- 
zardous to  attempt  deciding,  when  the  Holy 
Spirit  has  left  us  no  rule.  There  may  be  a 
confidence  of  faith,  there  may  be  a  fervour  of 
breathing  ;  there  may  be  a  sensible  nearness 
to  the  Great  Hearer  of  prayer;  and  yet  may  ex- 
pectation die  in  all  the  fruitlessness  of  the  object 
sought.  Faitliful  prayer  will  always  be  an- 
swered. But  that  uniformity  will  be  in  favour 
of  the  petitioner  himself  The  relative  to 
whom  affection  fondly  clings,  and  for  whom 
holy  expectations  are  born  in  the  bosom,  may 

26 


202  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

Still  Stand  aloof  and  afar  from  the  covenant  of 
grace,  while  those  yearnings  of  a  pious  plead- 
er bring  down  a  blessing  npon  himself  The 
"  thorn  in  tlie  flesh"  may  abide  while  mercieg 
of  a  character  unsolicited  are  shed  upon  the 
soul.  The  efficacy  of  prayer  consists  not  al- 
ways in  the  attainment  of  its  object,  even  when 
such  an  attainment  seems  not  forbidden  as  a 
jprinciple  of  desire. 

One  evening  in  the  absence  of  Mr.  Norton, 
intelligence  of  the  death  of  an  acqaintance  wa5 
communicated  by  one  of  the  family,  and  it  was 
rendered  of  more  interest  by  an  account  of  the 
tranquility  and  peace  with  which  she  had  closed 
a  life  of  usefulness.  It  was  the  starting  point 
of  a  conversation  in  which  all  equally  shared. 

"  It  must  have  required  a  high  degree  of 
faith,"  said  the  brother-in-law,  to  whom  I  shall 
give  the  name  of  Sewald,  in  lieu  of  his  own, — 
"  it  must  have  required  a  higli  degree  of  faith, 
to  have  sustained  her  when  she  was  leaving  an 
unfilial  and  reprobate  son." 

"  Yes,  but  are  we  sure,"  said  Caroline,"  that 
there  were  not  some  trying  moments  in  the  se- 
paration. She  departed  without  an  answer  to 
the  most  frequent  of  her  prayers  ;  and  without 
realizing  an  object  to  which  her  fondest  hopes 
had  been  looking  for  years.     I  do  not  think  it 


TIIK    AGED    SINNER.  203 

necessary  to  suppose  a  finished  success  to  our 
hopes,  in  order  to  die  happy.  Thousands  of  in- 
stances occur  in  which  the  parent  departs 
without  comfort  in  a  child,  and  yet  blesses  the 
hand  that  beckons  him  away.  I  do  not  mean 
that  the  Christian  will  always  die  in  triumph  ; 
nor  that  the  experience  of  a  last  hour  is  a  fair 
ordeal  of  faith.  Trials  may  accompany  the 
child  of  God  to  the  ripplings  of  Jordan.  A 
constitutional  gloom  may  cover  his  hours.  It 
was  so  with  the  sweet  Christian  bard  of  England. 
And  it  is  so  with  many  a  saint  like  spirit  now. 
The  constitutional  temperament  may  be  diseas- 
ed :  and  religion  is  not  always  a  remedy  for  disor- 
ders of  mind  which  arise  from  the  imperfec- 
tion of  the  body.  Much  of  our  spiritual  des- 
pondency may  have  its  source  in  these.  Besides, 
subjected  as  we  are  to  continual  conflicts  in  a 
state  of  probation,  we  have  no  special  promise 
to  be  delivered  from  them  in  the  moment  of 
death.  Grace  will  be  equal  to  our  day  :  and 
it  will  sustain  us  through.  But  although  it  will 
bring  us  oiY  conquerors  in  the  end ;  we  may 
not  be  without  a  painful  struggle  in  the  critical 
liour.  The  heavenly  voice,  which  said  "  fear 
not  to  go  down,  for  I  will  go  down  with  thee," 
will  accompany  the  believer,  until  il  addresses 
him  Avhero  encouraiifement  is  needed  no  more. 


204  THE  AGED   SINNER. 

But  it  would  demand  the  agency  of  a  miracle, 
to  preserve  him  from  temptations  which  are  in- 
separable from  our  present  condition." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Amelia,  "  do  not  the  min- 
isters of  the  Gospel  describe  the  death  hour  of 
the  believer  as  one  of  the  principal  attractions 
of  piety  l"  "  They  do  so,  and  they  are  equally 
general  in  their  description  of  the  last  moments 
of  the  impenitent.  We  have  some  judicious 
exceptions  to  such  a  practice  ;  but  its  frequen- 
cy is  to  be  lamented.  Even  christians  are 
sometimes  led  to  pass  judgement  on  the  de- 
ceased, where  trials  of  mind,  or  torpor  of  body, 
have  prevented  the  full  exercise  of  faith.  We 
are  already  too  much  disposed  to  look  rather 
for  comfort  than  for  sanctification  in  our  daily 
experience.  But  the  evil  becomes  additionally 
serious,  when  we  are  half  established  in  a  rule 
of  expectation  for  a  departing  hour.  In  both 
cases  we  are  liable  to  lose  the  object  by  a  dis- 
proportionate intentness  on  it,  and  a  conse- 
quent neglect  of  the  means  of  securing  it. 
And  hence  on  the  other  side,  many  an  impeni- 
tent sinner  derives  consolation  from  the  un- 
marked and  quiet  dissolution  of  an  acquain- 
tance, whose  prospect  in  life  was  no  better  than 
his  own." — -T 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  ^05 

"  But  I  return,"  said  Amelia,  "  to  the  case 
of  Mrs.  Stanley.  It  was  certainly  a  powerful 
instance  of  faith,  Avlien  she  so  freely  relinquish- 
ed what  she  had  so  long  promised  herself  in 
the  sight  of  a  converted  child.  Would  she 
not  necessarily  retain  an  assurance  that  her 
prayers  might  be  answered  hereafter  ?" 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  3Irs.  N.  "  not  quite  an  as- 
surance. She  died  as  she  lived — with  the 
breathing  of  prayer ;  and  it  was  a  consolation 
to  her  to  know  that  God  has  answered  many 
of  his  children  long  after  he  had  received  them 
to  glory.  But  it  does  not  always  follow  that 
a  full  confidence  and  persuasion  of  that  an- 
swer are  communicated  to  the  believer." 

The  conversation  had  now  reached  the  con- 
fines of  a  topic  which  awakened  all  the  curios- 
ity and  solicitude  of  Amelia.  It  was  with 
eagerness  she  rejoined — "  yet,  my  dear  Mother, 
has  not  God  promised  to  answer  the  faithful 
prayers  of  his  people  f ' 

"  He  has  so.  But  the  answer  may  neither 
be  in  the  season  nor  manner  which  we  may  have 
expected  ;  and  it  may  not  be  even  the  precise 
object.  I  have  no  doubt  the  Apostle  Paul 
prayed  in  faith,  when  he  thrice  besought  the 
Lord  to  remove  an  affliction  which  harrassed 
him.     He  was  heard  with  complacency,  and 


206  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

graciously  sustained  in  the  suffering  ;  but  al- 
though he  was  richly  blessed,  the  boon  was 
withheld." 

"  True  ;  but  it  was  not  consistent  with  the 
divine  will  to  remove  the  thorn  in  the  flesh  ;  and 
we  believe  it  may  not  have  been  best  for  the 
Apostle  himself.  Now  that  does  not  apply  to 
a  prayer  for  a  relative.  God  desires  the  sal- 
vation of  all ;  and  he  bids  us  pray  for  all." 

*'  Right,  Amelia,  and  it  is  an  encouragement 
which  we  ought  to  appropriate  to  ourselves. 
We  have  known  instances  of  the  faithfulness 
of  the  Great  Hearer  of  prayer  in  the  circle  of 
our  own  acquaintance.  We  have  read  of  many 
others.  Although  God  has  promised  blessings 
to  his  people,  and  will  assuredly  redeem  his 
promise,  still  he  says  of  them  every  one,  as  he 
said  of  the  promises  long  since — "  yet  for  all 
these  will  I  be  inquired  of."  It  is  prayer  which 
renders  us  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  the  favour, 
without  which  it  will  not  be  conferred  ;  or  if 
conferred,  would  lose  its  character  and  its 
worth." 

"  That  has  been  my  impression  ;  and  yet  I  have 
sometimes  been  in  serious  doubt,  when  I  re* 
member  that  an  Adam,  a  Noah,  an  Abraham 
and  a  David,  not  to  mention  others,  have  had 
reprobate  children  :  and  especially  when  the 


THE    AGED    SINNEK.  '^07 

Apostle  Paul  appears  to  attach  uncertainty 
to  all  that  we  can  do,  when  he  says — '  what 
knovvcst  thou  whether  thou  shalt  save  thy  hus- 
band, what  know  est  thou  whether  thou  shalt 
save  thy  wife  V  he  certainly  means  that  the  hus- 
band or  wife  is  to  act  in  faith,  and  yet  he  leaves 
the  event  in  mere  possibility." 

"  I  would  answer  that  the  secret  will  of  God 
is  not  the  rule  of  our  actions.  The  bare  pos- 
sibility of  the  salvation  of  an  immortal  soul  is 
in  the  highest  degree  encouraging :  and  not 
less  so  is  his  sympathy  with  our  sorrows,  his 
interest  in  our  spiritual  cares,  his  participation 
in  our  anxiety  for  others,  so  much  resembling 
his  own  when  on  earth,  and  so  near  akin  to 
the  very  ministry  of  Angels."     "  Oh  yes  !  it  is 

a  dehghtful  thought !  and  yet" Amelia's  eye 

betrayed  emotion  as  she  added,  in  the  tone  of 
a  melting  appeal — "  and  yet  the  bare  possibil- 
ity, that  one  for  whom  nature  taught  us  to  feel 
and  instructed  us  how  to  plead — oh  I  cannot 
realize  it.  I  have  once  said  that  the  saints  will 
know  each  other  in  Heaven — will  they  not 
know  who  is  missing  too  !  The  sliadow  of  one 
dreadful  thought  reaches  into  eternity." 

"  But  is  it  right,"  said  Sewald,  '•  to  indulge 
in  such  thoughts  \  They  are  chilling  to  our 
faith  :  they  create  a  discouragement  wjiich  con 


208  THE   AGED   SINNER. 

fuses  our  own  spiritual  prospects.  There  is 
every  thing  in  the  mercy  and  goodness  of  God 
to  promote  a  holy  confidence  in  him.  With 
the  assurance  of  this  we  should  leave  all  events 
where  they  must  rest  at  last,  in  his  own  hands. 
In  a  world  of  future  happiness,  nothing  of  the 
past  will  contract  our  pleasure,  no  painful  re- 
collections will  embitter  it,  no  vacancy  of  heart 
will  connect  with  it  a  sense  of  imperfection." 

"  Yes  ;"'added  Caroline,  "  I  have  frequently 
reflected  on  the  expression  of  our  minister, 
when  he  preached  from  the  words — "  there  will 
be  no  night  ihere^ — the  serene  of  Heaven 
will  be  dimmed  by  no  care.  Every  affection 
of  the  soul  shall  be  absorbed,  every  faculty  en- 
grossed, and  every  tie,  of  which  it  is  suscepti- 
ble, held  forever  by  a  powerful  and  all-per- 
vading attraction.  The  expanse  of  Heaven 
is  too  wide  to  restrict  the  range  of  an  immor- 
tal spirit,  its  varieties  too  illimitable  to  pall  on 
the  pure  appetite,  its  intelligence  too  vast  to 
confine  the  activity  of  an  exalted  intellect. 
No  night  will  be  there,  '  nor  cloud,  nor  speck, 
nor  stain.'  No  reminiscence  of  the  past  will 
painfully  arrest  the  career  of  feeling  and  mind. 
Gratitude,  knowledge  and  love  will  fill  the  en- 
larged chambers  of  heart  and  soul." 


THE   AGED   SINNER.  20d 

'"'  Well  repeated  !"  said  another  sister.  *'  Ca- 
roline is  no  listless  hearer ;  and  to  nic  tlrere 
seems  a  powerful  incentive  to  faith  in  a  re- 
flection so  reviving  :  and  perhaps  even  more  : 
united  with  a  humble  dependence  on  God,  and 
a  confiding  relinquishment  of  our  burden  into 
the  hands  of  the  Redeemer,  it  appears  adapt- 
ed to  give  a  right  direction  to  our  desires,  while 
by  a  reflex  action  it  renders  them  the  instru- 
ments of  promoting  our  own  present  happi- 
ness." 

Amelia  thought  not  so.  She  professed  not 
to  understand  the  nature  of  the  "  reflex  ac- 
tion :"  but  she  could  well  comprehend  how  di- 
minishing certainties  could  diminish  her  faith. 
She  would  have  reduced  the  subject  on  a  nar- 
rower circle  of  reasons.  She  would  have  al- 
lowed nothing  provisional,  nothing  trammelled 
with  conditions.  The  most  prominent  member 
of  the  family  was  devoid  of  piety ;  alien  to  the 
hopes  of  her  own  bosom,  and  disparted  from 
all  $hat  was  most  congenial  to  her.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  same  Almighty  arm,  which  had 
levelled  her  former  feelings  of  self-complacency 
with  the  dust,  and  raised  her  sunken  spirit 
again,  was  strong  as  ever.  T)ie  same  grace 
which  had  refreshed  her  own  spirit  in  its  lan- 
guishing flowed  still  from  its  oxhaustless  fount. 


210  THE    AGED    SINNER. 

And  it  shall  continue  to  flow,  while  their  is  pol- 
lution on  our  smitten  earth,  or  while  there  re- 
mains a  single  unsentenced  sinner  aloof  from 
his  God.  All  this  Amelia  would  have  said,  for 
she  thought  it  all  with  the  rapidity  which  emo- 
tion gives  to  the  mind,  and  which  passes  an 
argument  in  sight  before  it  could  be  invested 
with  half  its  clothing  of  words :  which  forms 
and  retracts  a  position  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  and  hurries  the  power  of  reflection  with- 
out a  consciousness  of  haste. 

But  the  object  which  gave  life  to  her  reason- 
ing entered  the  apartment.  The  change  which 
the  conversation  must  now  necessarily  take, 
was  unwelcome  to  Amelia,  though  far  less  so 
to  others.  They  saw  her  approach  to  a  ground 
which  it  would  have  been  painful  to  traverse, 
and  which  was  never  without  agitation  under 
the  foot  of  its  occupant.  But  to  her  at  that 
time  it  was  stable,  and  all  utterly  disconnected 
with  it  was  unprofitable  and  vapid.  She  car- 
ried the  idea  of  her  father's  conversion,  paral- 
lel vfith  her  own  being,  into  devotion  and  me- 
ditation. It  made  up  a  part  of  her  very  exis- 
tence, and  gave  a  colour  to  every  figment  of 
fancyi 

It  is  not  always  practicable  to  shift  the  sub- 
ject of  a  social   conversation  suddenly  :   and 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  211 

where  it  is  interrupted,  as  in  the  present  in 
stance,  by  the  entrance  of  an  addition  to  the 
party,  there  is  a  leehng  of  disingenuousness  in 
any  attempt  to  do  so  :  a  consciousness  of  art, 
which  no  man  but  an  accustomed  manoeuverer 
can  permit  without  a  sense  of  shame. 

3Ir.  Norton  accordingly  remarked  a  contrast 
between  the  silence  on  his  entrance,  and  the 
mingling'  of  voices  which  he  had  heard  in  the 
hall.  A  similar  change  had  been  observable 
twice  before.  He  had  then  thought  less  of  it. 
But  the  repetition  of  the  circumstance  was  in 
ill  accordance  with  the  state  of  his  mind.  He 
had  been  engaged  in  a  matter  of  some  impor- 
tance and  perplexity  :  and  had  expected  to  lose 
his  cares  in  the  cheerfulness  of  his  family.  And 
for  the  most  part  such  an  expectation  had  been 
hitherto  realized.  If  ever  deference  was  paid 
to  the  happiness  of  a  father  by  children,  it  was 
imminently  so  here.  They  met  his  views,  and 
they  anticipated  his  wishes,  whenever  they  could 
consistently  do  so  :  and  it  is  not  impossible  that 
even  the  strict  rules  of  Christian  consistency 
were  sometimes  forgotten,  or  inconsiderately 
sacrificed  to  filial  affection. 

It  is  a  hard  duty  which  conscience  lias  to 
discharge,  when  all  the  feelings  of  natural  af- 
fection are  enlisted  aL^ainst  Jier  :  feelings  which 


212  THE   AGED   SINNER. 

are  recommended  to  the  understanding  and  the 
heart,  and  a  neglect  of  which  natm-e  sets  down 
as  treason  against  herself.  And  then  how  ami- 
able seem  the  reasonings  which  the  occasion 
elicits !  The  happiness  of  the  father  is  only  of 
this  world.  To  him  there  should  be  nothing 
repulsive  in  home.  Before  him  religion  should 
wear  her  loveliest  attire  of  cheerfulness — the 
hoUiday  suit,  that  instead  of  repelling  shall 
win  1 — And  tlien  the  Sabbath — oh  there  is  not 
in  the  range  of  domestic  temptations  one  that, 
approaches  more  furtively  to  the  practice,  than 
a  desecration  of  the  Sabbath,  under  the  sway 
and  example  of  parental  worldliness.  Where 
there  is  not  an  utter  contempt  of  religious  prin- 
ciple, and  an  oif-casting  of  ail  dread  of  the  fu- 
ture, consecrated  time  comes  heavy  to  the  im- 
patience of  the  worldly.  Or,  where  there  is  a 
remnant  of  principle  left  from  the  instructions 
of  childhood,  which  imposes  a  slight  restric- 
tion on  unholy  inclinations,  how  cheerless  is 
the  law  which  prescribes  holiness  to  the  Sab- 
bath !  How  reproving  the  retirement  of  others ! 
How  monotonously  dull  all  order  and  regulation  ! 
But  to  be  left  alone  for  hours,  or  to  witness  the 
more  profitable  occupation  of  others  repugnant 
as  it  is  to  our  own  taste — who  can  endure  it  I 
Xo  gee  aX  such  seasons  "  the  sanctified  air" 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  2J3 

commenced  with  the  dawu  of  day,  deepened  by 
the  service  of  the  Temple,  and  darkened  into 
complete  unsociability   as  tiie  day  was  waning 

by" "  all  this"  said  Mr.  Norton, "  is  the  effect 

of  superstition,  not  of  religion."  And  he  had 
said  so  years  before  Amelia  understood  the  ex- 
perience of  piety  :  and  that  saying  had  become 
a  law  passed  upon  the  deportment  of  the  house- 
hold. And  never  were  subjects  more  carefully 
obedient:  never  was  compromise  more  carefully 
made  :  never  was  an  effort  more  imiform  and 
strict,  to  settle  conflicting  claims. 

But  now  a  new  revolution  had  taken  place. 
Amelia  had  become  the  character  we  have  al- 
ready described.  Not  a  sally  of  wit  had  she 
displayed  for  weeks.  She  uniformly  as  ever 
met  the  embraces  of  her  father  on  his  entrance  ; 
and  she  did  so  more  ardently  than  ever.  But 
then  her  eye  was  often  downcast,  and  there  was  an 
earnestness  in  her  manner,  which  ill-comported 
with  the  levity  w  hich  formerly  distinguished  her, 
indicating  that  all  on  her  part  was  not  told. 
Her  cheerfulness  too  wore  the  mien  rather  of 
suppressed  seriousness  than  of  genuine  hilarity. 
The  quick  sighted  parent  detected  all  this,  but 
he  was  far  from  conjecturing  the  cause.  And 
the  delicate  and  affecting  disclosure,  which  had 
toUowed  his  inquiry,  revealed  the  most  uuwcl- 


214  THE    AGED   8INNER. 

come  intelligence  which  had  ever  reached  him 
from  his  family.     ***** 
*.******** 

[To  this  point  in  this  interesting  sketch  had  the  beloved 
and  lamented  Author  arrived, — in  this  affecting  develop- 
ment of  domestic  character  was  he  engaged,  when  the  an- 
gel of  death  suddenly  called  him  away  from  all  his  labours 
to  his  eternal  rest.  It  is  a  precious  fragment,  replete  with 
most  touching  and  tender  associations.  It  may  be  regard- 
ed as  the  closing  act  of  a  life  devoted  to  the  noblest  purpo- 
ses— the  last  effort  to  do  good  of  a  spirit  just  taking  wing 
for  Heaven.  The  most  elaborate  and  finished  production 
of  the  same  admirable  pen  could  hardly  have  been  more 
rnoving  and  impressive  than  this  mere  commencement  of  a 
disclosure  of  evangelical  history,  whose  farther  incidents, 
results  and  lessons  of  instruction  and  adntonition  are  co- 
vered by  the  veil  which  separates  time  from  eternity.  No 
mortal  man  can  unfold  the  whole  design  of  this  unfinished 
Etching,  nor  adequately  describe  the  attractive  charms  of 
devoted  piety,  and  the  fearful  consequences  of  confirmed 
worldliness  and  hardened  impenitence,  which  its  completion 
would  have  vividly  and  strikingly  disclosed.  A  request  was 
indeed  made  on  the  bed  of  death,  that  a  friend,  who  had  en- 
joyed the  Author's  confidence  in  relation  to  this  volume,  would 
pursue  the  design  and  complete  the  sketch.  That  friend 
has  deciphered  the  short-hand  copy  with  scrupulous  care 
and  exactness  without  changing  a  thought  or  form  of  ex- 
pression. But  he  declines  making  any  addition  ;  believing 
that  the  great  object,  in  the  writer's  view,  that  of  giving  an 
affecting  moral  lesson  and  exerting  a  hallowed  influence 
upon  the  heart,  would  be  most  effectually  accomplished,  bV 
presenting  it  to  the  reader  just  as  it  was  left  by  the  loved 
hand  which  now  moulders  in  the  dust.  Let  it  remain  a 
broken  column, — fit  memorial  of  the  hopes  that  were  bias- 


THE    AGED    SINNER.  215 

ted,  the  prospects  that  were  darkened  and  the  hearts  that 
were  smitten  and  desolated  by  the  premature  death  of  its 
Author. 

It  may  be  proper  to  state  that  this  volume  was  composed 
expressly  for  publication  in  Europe,  and  without  the  Au- 
thor's name.  Previously  to  his  last  sickness,  however,  he 
had  been  prevailed  upon  to  consent  to  its  being  published 
anonymously  in  this  country.  It  is  now  deemed  proper  that 
his  name  should  accompany  the  work,  as  the  reasons  for 
'V)ncealraent  exist  no  longer.] 

A.  W.  L. 


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